The Final Problem
by Mighty Crouton
Summary: How do you solve an impossible problem? A story of indoctrination, chaos, and freedom. Jane 'Foucault' Shepard's final run. Sequel to Kingdom of Rust.
1. Breathe

**This is a sequel to Kingdom of Rust, as well as other Foucault stories. This story can stand alone, however. This is the last pitch. The last run. The last game.**

**How do you solve an impossible problem?**

**THE FINAL PROBLEM**

**Chapter 1: Breathe**

* * *

**Shepard**

"Breathe."

"What... did you say?"

"I said... that whatever you do," Anderson gasps. "Don't forget to breathe."

It's a funny suggestion. Anderson knows I'm dying, and dying people have a harder time breathing. He should know better.

My vision is slightly off kilter, and I have to press my left hand into my side, due to the crippling pain of shrapnel pieces lodged into my torso. I'd like to pick out the glass from my muscle tissue, but it's not worth bleeding out. I know my left wrist has probably sustained hairline fractures, and I don't need a mirror to know my face cakes with cuts, blood, and grease.

I'm at peace. This is a mildly, terrifying feeling.

It means my brain is preparing to die.

At least a dying Anderson makes for great company.

"You know. You never thanked me for saving your life," Anderson weakly starts, gazing at me sidelong.

I'm familiar with last wills and last testimonies. I've witnessed all the facets of death while working. However, I've never been on the other side. The dying side. The confessing side. The resigned one. This is a new experience, and I'm not entirely sure how to respond or if I even should. I sigh, press my back into the wall, turning to match a solid gaze with the admiral.

"I speak through my actions, and if I haven't expressed my gratitude effectively enough, then..." I manage to choke out.

My mouth burns and stings, like I swallowed chewed up glass. Talking is getting a little harder.

Guess it means I must be choosier with my words.

"No, child. Your actions have always been... quite profound." Anderson mutters. "I don't think I've ever told you just how very proud of you I am..."

I chortled, brushing burnt hair back with one hand, "You never had to tell me. I always had the memo, Anderso-" I turn to share a devilish grin with the older man. He doesn't reply. Instead, his body slumps and his eyes glaze over. I must have just missed his last breath. I push a hand against his chest, just so I can hear him exhale since he forgot to say goodbye.

I know its forced, but the sound of his forced exhale is comforting.

It's too bad I can't make him inhale.

I'm ready to die alone. I'm used to being alone. I've always been alone. It's a perfect end to my less than perfect story. I whistle through my teeth just to find a solid pitch, focusing on the sound. These are my last minutes. I think I should be constrained by regret or something. Right now, I'm supposed to look back on my great achievements or sob about my sins, right? I'm suppose to dwell on all those grievances, all the lives I've sacrificed, all the people I care about. Cared about. Didn't care about. Shouldn't care about. Won't care about.

I should be slumped here, thinking - Damn. Anderson was a great guy. He will be sorely missed.

When I first met him, I thought he was going to kill me. A valid conclusion when you're knocked on the ground by the man you failed to kill yourself.

'What the hell are you doing?' Anderson spat at me.

I tried puncturing his throat so I could finish the job. But the older man lashed his head forward, broke my nose, and pushed his knee into the center of my back.

When he flipped me over, my physical state quickly changed the violent exchange.

"Holy shit..." Anderson whispered, brown eyes wide and brows raised as he regarded the swollen belly that betrayed my pregnancy. "My god... How old are you?"

I slammed my head into the ground and whipped around briefly before giving in. My time was up. I felt done for. "Sixteen. I'm sixteen."

Anderson could have killed me. I probably would've killed me if roles reversed. It would have been easier. He could have killed me, or thrown me in jail, or used me, or god knows what else.

Instead, Anderson recruited me. He gave me a name, a background, and a new fucking life.

He could have killed me, but Anderson was so invested in saving me.

"These are your wings," He said, when he introduced me to the Normandy. "She'll fly you higher than the stars."

Anderson. Tall, proud, fucking goody two shoe heroic Commander Anderson. The man who thought he knew me better than I knew myself. The man who offered a bratty, knocked up sixteen year old assassin a new chance at life. Was I sixteen? Maybe I was fourteen. Or twenty. When you don't have parents or a legal birth certificate, details like that get murky. Regardless, the man gave me choices, and let me run with my own decisions. The man who trusted the very same person assigned to kill him.

That man died about three minutes ago, and I should grieve.

I've never been very good at grieving. Hell, I've never been very good at feeling much of anything other than frustration and contempt. I don't deal with emotions very well. Whether it is upbringing or brain chemistry, I am a very detached person. I'm cold, I'm hard, I'm calculating. My mind functions very much like a machine. Where you may see friends, I see people in terms of numbers, decimal points, statistical errors, and percent marks. Save the krogan, ignore the salarians. Protect Kaiden, Ashley is ready to die. Give up on Thessia, focus on Rannoch. Create an uneasy alliance with the geth and quarian, deal with the inevitable civil unrest after this war.

This is why I'm good at killing reapers.

I'm more callous than a machine.

Not so callous anymore are you, Shepard? The way Anderson looked me right in the eye, and with his dying breath told you just how proud he was. You. The cold, hard, manipulative bitch who threw away lives in Torfan just so you could win. He was proud of you. The woman who would do anything, including kill 300,000 batarians just so she can win. He was proud of you, even as you manipulated and lied to entire fleets, just to win a war.

Anderson was proud of you.

Why was he proud? He got it all wrong. That's the problem with humans and most other people - they look at me as some hero, as some great person they can invest all their hopes and dreams.

The Illusive Man knew me. He understood me. He realized the true me. I'm something to be owned. I've always been owned. I do not have true autonomy. I was born a slave, and I will die a slave. Slavery is all I know.

Let me repeat myself, I make for a horrible human being.

The only thing I care about is winning. Biologically and psychologically, I am nothing like you or anyone else you will meet. I am a hunter, and to me the galaxy is a giant school of pilot fish feeding off the scraps of my kill.

Believe me. Reaper killing keeps me from getting bored.

I hate being bored.

I hate being bored. And I don't like losing either. Reapers fear me, aliens don't understand me, but humans know I'm psychotic.

You have to be psycho, to enjoy killing reapers. Only the mentally insane and unstable find improbable odds thrilling.

You should know that it's not impossible to destroy the reapers. Not improbable. If a chance is there, I take it. I've run the calculations in my head like a constant wheel in locomotion, and I know that there is a way to kill these motherfuckers.

But I missed something. I failed. I am dying now. There was a chance I would die, but it was so slim, so minimal, so tiny...

Its odd, I can't place it.

Where did I go wrong?

Did I start to believe that gods exist? Was it the reapers that made me realize they do, in fact, exist? Was that where I went wrong? I became afraid? Is this what fear feels like?

Neitzsche taught me god is dead. He has been dead for centuries.

I have seen god, and he is not dead.

No. He is outside, he looks like a fucking squid, and he is destroying my home planet.

If Garrus were here now, he'd offer a questionable look. Perhaps flex his mandibles in concern. I'd probably grit my teeth, puff my cheeks, and roll my head - turian manners I've picked up. Or maybe I'd throw my hands in the air and shake them radically, like Dr. Mordin often did. Perhaps I'd just quietly press my hip to the wall and say nothing, asari do that sometimes.

Or just roll my eyes. That's always satisfying.

I wish Garrus were here. Or Liara. Or Tali. Or Kaiden. Or Ashley. Or Mordin. Or Miranda. Or Jack... All of them. None of them. Some of them.

I've noticed people, regardless of their race or gender, appreciate mimicry. They like to see their mannerisms and words repeated. It creates a connection, a familiar interface. I try to abide by that, to keep up team morale and loyalty. It has worked so far, even if I feel forced sometimes. Smiling is my least favorite expression. Why do people have to smile at one another to convey understanding? Sincerity?

I hate smiling.

But I love killing.

Killing a reaper is an art, one that requires a very creative hand and a commanding presence. You can't simply run on up to a reaper and poke it in the optic. You need to subjugate it to a barrage of assaults, tempt and entice it with easy prey. Taunt and deceive it, brush its ego and force it to calculate false predictions.

Its like... subconscious hacking, I guess. I'm planting a virus in its head that makes it believe it truly is unstoppable, and I use that to cripple it. However, I need to think on my feet, I need to use the tools available to me, I need to throw my team around like chess pieces as I target the Achilles heel and watch him tumble.

I wish I could convey how the world shines when I fight a reaper. I'm gifted with an eidetic memory, I'm able to layer my experiences and see the pattern of weaknesses. Because I'm autistic, the space in my brain that is supposed to be devoted to emotional attachments is instead hot wired like a computer - I see numbers, stats, information piled across the surface of the war zone.

I am a terrible human being. But I am a brilliant hunter.

Nature made me the perfect reaper killing machine. Circumstances only sharpened my blades over the years.

When god met me, he realized he could die.

I know how to kill him.

I know how to kill a god.

I read somewhere that the dividing line between organics and synthetics is the difference between understanding and cold calculation. I am a bit of an anomaly, I am an organic who is able to relate to synthetics. But to fight my enemy, I needed to bond with my team mates, otherwise I could be another Morinth - arrogant, alone, and eventually killed by her own stupidity.

The people I chose to surround myself brought out the best facets of my personality and killed my weaknesses. Weaknesses like, an open air of superiority. Or a cold, callous response to everyone and everything. Pure selfish detachment does not win wars.

So I stepped backwards, adjusted those weaknesses, and evolved. Maybe that's why I got along so well with Legion...

...Legion...

A sharp pain slices through me, reminding me that my body is still dying.

None of this adds up.

I'll admit. I'm a pretty sore loser. I refuse to accept my mortality, regardless how many bullets I take to the head.

That's a weakness of mine I'll never be able to do away with. I'm egotistical as all hell, and I don't believe in personal error.

_"Commander Shepard,"_ Hacket's voice buzzes in my ear. _"Commander?"_

I wake from the haze of my thoughts. Only a thirty seconds have passed. Anderson has been dead three minutes and thirty seconds. I sigh and tap the commlink near my ear. "Admiral?"

_"We are having trouble with the crucible.. We don't know how to start it. Perhaps you can get her to work?"_

Groaning, I pull up on to my feet, "Always something.. Alright, I'm on i-" My armor's mass effect field is failing, and cannot lift 400 pounds of internal prosthetics and flesh. So I collapse. Naturally.

I'm crawling on all fours, dragging my beaten, broken, bleeding, bruised body towards what I think are the controls. Maybe? Honestly, I don't know. I can't read this room, it's not familiar. Everything is so pristine and clean, scrubbed and perfect. Usually, my mind would be excited by the prospect of solving a mystery as intriguing as this - how do you start advanced alien technology that is possibly billions upon billions of years old, created by the species most likely responsible for the reapers' design? I would give anything to study the controls for a bit. But that requires I get up, which is something I can't do.

_"Commander,"_ Hacket buzzes.

I'm flat on the ground instead. Moving is hard. My muscles are giving away. I've broken too many bones, and it will take approximately a month or so of medical attention and physical therapy to return to the peak of my health. Even the synthetic tools that stitch my body together from the inside are breaking down - my body feels heavier than it used to, and the bright red veins peeking between torn flesh is glowing dull.

I'm dying.

I need to accept that the reapers won this one. But really, if I defeated the reapers, if I actually poisoned the sea of gods, what would I do then? Rebuild? Make a city? Be a leader? Settle down like a normal person? Have kids? Marry?

How... boring.

I would die from boredom.

But... the peace might be... nice.

I wouldn't have to watch anymore people die.

Not that it used to bother me. It didn't. Lately... though...

No. That shit never used to bug me, I don't know why it does now. People are just numbers, they are just a mixture of DNA with personalities, bonded by ideas and a mutual want to survive. I don't understand why I care. The decisions are beginning to weigh on me little by little, ever since I left Earth.

It started when I witnessed my own son's death.

"Breathe," Anderson shouted, holding my hand as a small gaggle of medical officers surrounded me. "I command you to breathe."

One of Anderson's first commands. I remember, very vividly, the staccato of my breathes, my lungs expanding and retracting as the pain seared through me. I was giving birth at a remote, Alliance base in Iran. Though, at the time, I had not yet enlisted.

As I said before, for whatever reason, Anderson really wanted to save me. I don't know why. Maybe I reminded him of something he lost a long time ago, and I was his way of making up for mistakes.

Maybe he knew what I really was, and wanted to make sure I was strictly Alliance property.

Maybe he knew, from the beginning, that circumstances turned me into the perfect soldier.

Maybe he knew, I was born a slave, I am a slave, I will die a slave.

"You need to breathe."

Soldiers aren't born. They break and are remade, through years and years and years of systematic abuse. I will not go into detail, but there is a reason killing is an art to me. Why it is so easy. Why I can differentiate between a bad order and a good one. Why people are just a list of numbers. Why I can make the difficult decisions with a shrug. Why I don't allow weakness. Why I'm willing to take the blame. And why I feel no guilt or remorse.

"That is an order. BREATHE."

So, without adding a snarky slide or arguing with him, I complied. And I breathed. One breath, two breath, three breath, four breath, push. I focused on my lungs. I felt them expand and retract.

"Breathe."

I listened to the wind whistle through my teeth. I could hear a baby's scream filled the air, but I focused on my body. I imagined red cells bright and revitalized by oxygen, as they pumped through my heart and engaged in a never-ending travel stream through my body. I housed millions upon millions of different microorganisms and cells that used my body as their own little habitat. I am a planet, with feasts of living creatures thriving off of me. It fascinated me, and here I was, duplicating myself into the form of a newborn who would grow to house the children of these living cells and bacteria. I've never bonded or felt close to anything like that before, knowing that I not only created life, but I was a god who created a whole universe of organisms.

I kept breathing, even as Anderson wiped the sweat from my brow. I kept breathing, even as Anderson carried my child away from me.

I made my decision. I never make bad decisions.

If you have a difficult time detaching yourself from your own emotions, I recommend you give away your newborn child. It works wonders.

But my boy never stopped haunting me.

Eight years later, the Alliance air locked me in Vancouver. We all knew the Reapers were coming. We all had unfinished business that needed tying up. I suppose the inevitable Reaper invasion encouraged me to find him. It wasn't difficult. I am a class A hacker, a former Yakuza assassin, a council spectre, and a N7 officer. I also have connections with the Shadow Broker. So, yes. I tracked down my son.

I chose not to make direct contact. I'm not very good at reunions with children I give away. Instead, I made arrangements through Liara and Admiral Anderson to move his family to Vancouver, closer to the Alliance headquarters. He always played near my window.

Tussled blonde, sharp blue eyes, and a blatant honesty that might be otherwise perceived as callousness. His birthday was on March 6th. He just turned eight. I left him a present in his room. It was a ship model, the Normandy.

That day was the first time I ever spoke to him. That day was also when the Reapers invaded. I remember him hiding in the ducts, and I tried to convince him to come with me. But I do not know how to comfort children, especially ones I give away. He disappeared.

I watched him climb into a transport shuttle from the Normandy. Shortly, a Reaper ripped apart that shuttle into pieces.

The nightmares started after that.

I haven't had nightmares in years.

"Wake up."

The voice is coming everywhere. It's layered, in synch with the whispers and calls of the many I have lost. In the orchestra of sound, I hear Ashley Williams, Mordin, Thane, many more voices from my past... conducted by a child's utterance, a boy, a young boy.

No more than seven... eight. No more than eight.

I raise my head and scrutinize an ethereal being, small and lithe, bent blue light and virtual matter composing the boy's silhouette. I pull myself to my feet and regard the 'child', shaped into the image of that boy. That damned boy. My boy. Either heaven has a sick sense of humor, or I'm starting to hallucinate due to lack of blood.

"Is there a particular reason you look like my son? Or is this a stupid joke?" I grumble, hand pressed over my side as I study the hologram. These dreams and hallucinations were beginning to wear me down. If I'm going to die, I'd like to die contemplating old western philosophical farts and Buddha, not where I went wrong. "Where am I?"

"The Citadel," the voice chimes, 'head' tilts back to level his eerie gaze with mine. "It's my home."

So the vision of my son lives in the fucking Citadel. How quaint.

"So why did you decide to appear in that form?" I mutter.

"I have studied your historical imprint. This form is most familiar to you," he... it... I mean IT answers.

Of course he studied my historical imprint. And of course the ghost of my son would be the last thing I see before I die. Is that not the way of things?

"So who are you then?" I inquire, lips purse as I study the boy. With exception to his surface material, this thing is a perfect replication of my child.

I have to remind myself that this is just a representation of that boy, a boy who is dead.

This is not that boy. This is not my boy.

"I am the catalyst," the hologram answers.

"Wait but..." it didn't make sense. None of this makes sense. I'm about to ask the boy if he is a manifestation of the Citadel, but I stop myself and try to answer my question through deductive reasoning. Is he the Citadel? Or is this something greater? I take a moment to look at him, to really see through him. He is the Catalyst, which is to say, the programming behind the Citadel which is somehow related to Reapers and Reaper technology. I narrow my eyes as my mind spins, thinking and studying and contemplating and deducing. There is a reason the Reapers are all hellbent on guarding this floating piece of metal, and it's not as if the chunk of floating space debris was really capable of taking out all the Reapers unless... unless...

"You are the collective mind," I state. I'd snap my fingers and cheer myself on, but even talking is a pat on the back at this point. May I remind you, I am still dying. "You are the brain."

"Yes," the child answers in that same boring, monotone pitch. "Though, brain is strictly an organic term. I am the artificial intelligen-"

"I know, I know. I don't need to be corrected by a synthetic, thank you."

"Evidently, you do."

Did he just mock me?

"I need to stop the Reapers." The words stumble from my mouth without thought, which is very unlike me. I never speak before I think. I always study all the possible outcomes, consider all the potential possibilities, all the chances, stage exits, and revelations. I'm always prepared. I'm shocked I'd even divulge myself to this stranger. Though, I suppose, even the dying are allowed their delusions. And I am most certainly dying.

"Do you know how I can stop the Reapers? Or... how I can stop you? You are the Reapers, right? I'm not even sure what I'm suppose to call you."

"The Catalyst."

"Right," I say. "You mentioned that."

The Catalyst furrows his brows, the details of his lip turn and eyes fixed on my mouth as he mimics thinking. "The Reapers are mine," he finally answers. "I control them. They are my solution."

Oh fucking fantastic. I have to keep myself from rolling my eyes. Just what I needed, but, this outcome is pretty predictable when faced with the impossible odds of destroying an unthinkable, unfathomable enemy. "Alright, humor me. How are they your solution, oh great mind behind the Reapers."

"Chaos," he answers simply. "An order to chaos."

Chaos. The war between organic and synthetic, a war between chaos and order. I've heard this argument, I know it. I know it by heart... the thesis, the structure, the concept, the counter points, the evidence, which is right, which is wrong. I've internally debated this conversation in my mind for many years, and challenged EDI and Legion's own arguments on the war between nature and artificial. It's very simple, really.

Let me break it down.

Organic beings strive to achieve immortality but nature's finite tools limits this goal. We organics can only strive for immortality in three ways: **Physically**, by breeding. **Philosophically**, with an idea. Or **artificially**, through technology. This desire to survive is what makes our nature so chaotic. We cannot be immortal. We are fated to die. It is our nature.

If that doesn't kill us, the desire for immortality will. We are killed by the demand to breed. We are killed by ideas. We are even killed by the technology we create.

Anyways, I can go on about this forever, but time is short and my world is burning to shreds.

It's a really fun conversation, though. I love this debate. Wish I wasn't dying so I could keep it up with myself.

Still... it'll be fun to argue with this Reaper A.I.

"You created the Reapers, to protect organic life..." I mutter. "To save us..."

"Correct," The boy responds. "This is the only way to restore order for the next cycle. My solution is to protect organic life by cyclically harvesting it."

"Harvesting us... You really believe that we are capable of completely annihilating ourselves?"

"Of course you are," the boy states, shaking his head. "Once, my creators were once like you. They too were once organics who adapted and evolved for space. But while their minds accelerated with shared knowledge and great feats, their bodies could not catch up to the evolutionary race. They had to create the necessary tools to fully explore and reach their potential. However, those tools meant to serve them turned on them... the technology, the synthetics, everything nearly destroyed this entire galaxy. So they created a solution, a failsafe against the chaotic decisions organics make that lead to their inevitable destruction."

"So... you are like a computer, and the Reapers are giant moving hard drives," I answer, eyes wide and jaw loose. "We are all pieces of data, collected into a single unit - so that our ideas, our thoughts, our material is stored for all time... Like... a back up disk"

"Correct," The boy replies.

"... Fucking brilliant," I hush as these revelations dawn on me, leaning into a nearby pillar as I stare at those squeaky clean, untouched white floors. "Fucking... brilliant... you are fucking brilliant."

I have to steady myself as I fall slowly to the ground, unable to hold my weight as my internal systems shut down little by little. The muscles go first. Still, I don't mind so much. I have to praise my enemy for his innovation. "So you harvest advanced civilizations and leave others alone, so that they can advance to the same level. And then... you just back us up and store us like memory." I slap my hand against my head, staring at the kid who is now eye level. "Holy shit, I never saw that coming. I should have seen it coming. I kind of did, actually. But... who the hell came up with this?"

"I did," the hologram chimes, the strange echoes of his voice becoming more defined, the feature of his childish tone pitching in lower registers. "I created the cycle to protect organic life from synthetics."

"You can't create yourself. You are the Reapers."

"I am the catalyst. I am the collected intelligence. But I am not the Reapers."

"Fine. Whatever. Who created you?"

"I did."

"Oh for... Okay, fine, skip that question. Its irrelevant since I might be dead in a few minutes. So to save organics from extinction or the threat of 'chaos' as you like to put it, you stored us. Like memory," I mumble under my breath, gaze twitching as I process this startling revelation. "Well, it makes perfect logical sense. There are no flaws with that thinking... But... there is a problem, you know."

The boy... The hologram blinked, regarding me with a blank expression that was both unnerving and telling of his synthetic nature.

I swallow, a mixture of saliva and blood soothing my bruised throat as I speak hoarsely, "We like to make our own decisions, really. We aren't too chummy with having a few machines downplaying our free will into collective thought. Not to knock you off your feet, but I think the greatest innovation organics wield against synthetics is diversity. You are stripping us of diversity."

"Diversity is a weakness," The boy responds.

"What? Hardly," I shoot back. "You know as well as I that mutations are occurring in this cycle. There are organics who have evolved specifically to share this galaxy with the very synthetics they create. Hell, look at the quarians. They would not be able to repopulate their world without direct support from geth. And me, look at me. I'm made to kill synthetic mother fuckers. Organics have evolved to communicate or just shoot synthetics out of the sky. Nature wants us to live together."

"So you will destroy me, Reaper killer? You are willing to kill billions of years of collected advanced civilizations just to win a war."

"Well..."

The boy closed his eyes and shook his head, blue wisps of electrical hair turning in various directions, giving the hologram life. "There are other options. You can destroy the Reapers, yes, but you know that in doing so, all synthetic life and Reaper technology will also be destroyed. There will be no mass effect relays. Chaos will ensue. People will die. You will purge these harvested lives to protect organics. You may even purge your own advanced civilizations in this cycle. Even then, the war between synthetics and organics is inevitable. The Reaper solution will repeat itself if you are lucky. If you are not, this galaxy will self destruct."

"... So... If I destroy this base then... I may have won, but at the cost of entire advanced civilizations..."

"Correct," The boy responds.

"Well, if I'm going to die, might as well be with a bang," I grumble.

"You are still hesitant."

"Of course I am," I snap back. "Geth are just now learning the concepts of free-will. I know an artificial intelligence personally who is constantly questioning it. Don't you see? Synthetics are truly learning to self-determine in a way that the Reapers never have. They are tasting 'Chaos', as you like to put it."

"Impossible and irrelevant."

"That is BULLSHIT, and you know it!" I stab back.

"You are portraying a typical organic weakness of personification. Synthetics cannot self determine beyond concepts of order."

"Yes they can," I spit back. "They are evolving. The mind is evolving. They are understanding."

"They cannot understand without the organic concept of empathy. Synthetics will never truly understand. They do not know what it means to be alive."

"Not if you don't give them a chance!"

"Says the woman who was born into slavery and knows nothing but slavery."

"I know, I'm real ironic."

"There is another way," The boy offers. "You can control us."

I lick my lips and narrow my eyes. I maybe ruthless, I maybe cruel, I maybe very good at killing reapers, but controlling whole galactic civilizations? "Really..."

"Yes. That solution is in fact a possibility," He responded in awe, his voice still a heavy monotone. A monotone that was pulling my emotions and offering me tempting choices. "I warn you, however. You will die. You would replace me, but your body would cease. You would be changed."

"... I knew there was a catch," I grumble. Thinking, I consider the weight of my choices and indulge in the unlikely, "I could synthesize our current civilization with the Reapers, can't I? I can literally give a perfect harmony between life and machine... Achieve singularity... no one dies. Everyone lives. Organics achieve order, Synthetics achieve chaos. Wham bam, happiness."

"Yes. You could. That would surely end this cycle," the boy replies.

"I fucking hate that answer. It still strips both organics and synthetics the ability to self-determine."

"Says the Reaper Killer, the Bloody Shepherdess who leads her flocks to the fires, She who would slaughter whole armies and innocent civilians so the greater number may live. She who thinks herself so great, she can determine who lives and who dies."

"I only did what was demanded of me," I growl.

"Is that what you tell yourself? Do they force you? Why are you still a slave, Reaper Killer? Who is your master now? Who makes your choices now?"

Is he... Is it mocking me?

"Shut up."

"I know you, Shepard. Because there are many who were like you in the past. You are not the only Shepard in this galaxy's history, but you are the first to make it this far."

I bite my lip and stare at the ground. This hologram is such a perfect replication of that boy. I turn my head slightly, and remember those haunting dreams where my feet pound and I chased after the spirit of my son, a representation of everything I've desired, I've held dear, I've wanted. Autonomy. Control. Freedom. Freedom. Freedom. Freedom.

"I only have those three choices...?" I ask.

"Yes. Or the cycle continues."

Only three. But to what end? It was so... simple and... methodical and... Which choice was right? I should know this. I should know the outcome. Why don't I know the outcome? I always know the outcome.

Why can't I solve this last problem?

Why can't I solve this impossible problem?

Is this all really beyond my understanding?

".. No, something is wrong..." I stumble backwards, staring at the hologram. "Something's not right with this picture..."

Something was off. I couldn't put my finger on it. Usually I'm right about everything, provided I wasn't quizzed on asari pop culture or hanar idols. That was just a waste of brain space.

"...You must make a choice," The hologram buzzed. "Time is not on your si-"

"One moment, I need to go to my thinking place now," I snap at the boy, fingers pressed to my temples as I begin to dive into my thoughts.

"Your thinking plac-"

"Excuse me, but please shut the fuck up. Your _words_ are annoying me and I need to think in silence... Something's not right. But what is it? What is wrong? _Thinking thinking thinking thinking thinking..._ Garrus would say 'Shepard, perhaps we should make a decision right now' And I would say 'Garrus, I'll make a decision after I figure out what is wrong because something doesn't make sense' and then he'd say-"

"What are you doing? You must make a decisio-"

I turn around furiously, and point a finger through the boy's holographic face, right between the eyes, "Noise! You are just noise! I need silence so I can... fucking breathe. God.. Now silence yourse-..." I stop, my face screwing up as an idea comes. "Wait..." and then it leaves. "No..." And then it comes back "Yes..."

My finger stayed there, embedded in the boy's head and I heard my voice rattle out of my mouth. My brain was on fire, ideas and thoughts and clues and points sounding off in so many places. I had to talk. I had to get my ideas in a single, verbal pattern or else I might submerge myself and become lost in this sea of theories and scenarios. "... Liara wouldn't be helpful in this situation, unfortunately... She's intelligent, but she tends to overanalyze situations. Liara has a tendency to overlook the simple, the general, the big fucking idea... She didn't even realize an ancient goddess was actually a Prothean, how didn't she see that? Even two year old would have made that connection... She has information, but she never quite knows what to do with i-... No Garrus now... Garrus, however, can see the general. He always points out shit I can't see.. Always able to see that goddamn dirt spot right in front of him, even if he doesn't recognize it..."

What would he say? _Well, isn't this charming._ He'd probably say that. Followed by,_ Well great_. Or _'Fantastic'_, or... No no no no, that's not what he'd say. He wouldn't say that. He'd say something that I was missing, he'd say something that would spark my mind. He'd say something that would remind me, that would clue me in... he'd see something and say it, without realizing just how fucking valuable his words were at that moment. He'd say it blindly, and then it would dawn on me.

"Something doesn't add up, something isn't right, something isn't making sense..." I mutter out loud.

_'Shepard', Garrus would say, 'Shepard. We are running out of time. You have to tell the boy what your decision i-..."_

You have to tell the _boy_ what your decision is...

You have to tell th-..

There it is.

Why did he look like that boy? Why that boy specifically? Why not any other person old person? Or just, you know, a regular old interface? Why that boy?

Unless...

... That boy... that boy... that boy... that boy... that bo- but... I never had a... that boy was a strange-... I never knew hi-...

I slowly turn my head and stare at the hologram.

"You're good," I whisper through my grinning teeth. "Oh, you are very, very, very good."

I pull out my pistol and load a heat sink into its empty barrel.

"Not good enough, though."

I raise the gun to my right temple.

"Wait what are you doi-" The sweet synthesized voice rolled into a rich, crackling electric noise. The hologram flickers, turning different hues of reds and blues as the static snaps. The floodgates open and I can feel the fire wash over me. My memory stitches itself back together, recovering from the nausea of reaper indoctrination as the voice buzzes at me, "You would have the cycle continue?"

"Not entirely, no," I answer slyly, flaring my nostrils.

"You are not making sense."

"Shhhhh. Shhhh." I push my finger into the hologram's lips, narrowing my eyes and smiling dangerously. "Now now now. You can stop trying. It's not going to work. You've made a very large error, which is... quite pleasing to see, actually. It means you are afraid. You are fucking afraid and you are getting very desperate."

"You are not making sens-"

"I'm making plenty of sense," I conversely bob the pistol back and forth in my hand, illustrating a point. "The Illusive Man was right.. he knew something. The Crucible... err... Catalyst _is _a means to control you. Kind of. Sort of. Not completely."

"I am the Cataly-"

"Honestly, do you have to keep lying?"

I pause for a moment, lips press narrow and eyes studying the air - twitching back and forth as my mind moves and thinks... "But that doesn't quite answer the last question... Why are you so intent on making sure I either destroy, synthesize, or control you? Better yet, why that particular form?"

The hologram does not respond. It doesn't even move. It is still, frozen, and quiet.

"Common feature... What is a common feature... between destroying, synthesizing, and controlling you...? What do all three of these features have in common.."

I narrow my eyes and spit a gob of blood on the ground. There might be a little piece of my esophagus in there too. I am supposed to be dying after all. "This is a failsafe, isn't it? If I choose 'destroy', I will kill off a powerful alliance between synthetics and organics... If I destroy you, the synthetics have essentially lost their right to_ free will._ That's bull shit. Your programming is bull shit."

I study my gun, and fix my finger across the trigger. "If I synthesize, I'd just be a husk. Everyone would be a husk. What right do I have to _pre-determine_ lives that aren't my own? Your whole damn process is all about decimating free will. You would destroy it."

The boy stared at me. "You would control us?"

"And make you a slave? No. I know what this is. All three choices, all of them... they all lack_ chaos_. You essentially cut away your ability to choose. One way or another, you are either killed or you are enslaved. You don't have a choice. I make that choice for you..."

Silence. Satisfying, really.

"I maybe an organic, but let me make one thing clear. I know how machines think. And what works for brainwashing, doesn't work on me," I snap. "I should thank you for revealing the Citadel for what it is, however. I should also thank you for revealing the mystery of the Catalyst. And how to overcome the Reapers."

I pause... and really look at this lying hologram of a boy. "It's strange. You and I actually have a lot in common. We both only know how to be a slave. Anything outside of that frightens us." A part of me actually feels sorry for the twit.

"It's too late, Shepard." The boy's voice twists into darker tones, the deep, heavy beat of Harbinger's cruel voice. "We have already planted the virus in your mind."

"Oh yeah, sure. You've gotten me pretty hard. But I'm not the only player in this game, buddy."

I smile as the hologram of Harbinger flickers and spits static. I remember. I remember how I fell hard on Anderson, and whipped my knife around to cut his throat. I remember how he wrapped his hand around my wrist, broke it, and threw me on the ground with his knee lodged between my shoulder blades. I remember him pulling me back to my feet, staring at me, shocked his would be killer was sixteen years old and pregnant.

I remember giving birth. I remember pushing the baby away. I remember the screams. Gutteral. I remember him telling me to breathe as I gave birth. I remember when he told me to breathe as I sobbed, breaking into tears and holding him in a way that I never held another human being before. It was desperate and pathetic, weak and sad.

"Breathe, lass. Just breathe."

But I couldn't stop crying. It is not easy giving away your newborn daughter for another chance at life.

"Desperate move," I mutter at the hologram. "But you couldn't take on the form of an infant I've never seen before, could you? It had to be that boy, the boy who'd be my daughter's age... The one that just so happened to be at the right place, at the right time."

I shake my head, "But that's how you did it, isn't it? How you 'hacked' my mind? Planted an idea? Altered my memories?"

I remember that boy outside my window. I let my walls down for a split second, just a tiny sliver of a moment... But that's all you need, really. A small break past your firewall before the enemy plants a virus in your head. An idea. And then that idea is altered forever.

I shake my head, laughing as the place crackles and falls apart. "Tell me - the prosthetics that the Illusive Man used to rebuild me, it made it easier for you to get into my head, didn't it? You indoctrinated me. And like a true organic, I fell for it. I wanted my child, and you gave me a child. But you got too desperate. All those dreams, all that chasing, all that regret and trying to build up my 'organic' sense of despair..." I spat on the ground. "Fuck you."

"It will continue, Shepard," The hologram responded, the familiar tones of Harbinger painting his synthetic voice cold. "The cycle will continue. You cannot escape inevitability."

"Maybe," I smile widely and raise my pistol to my head and watch with some sadistic delight as the hologram flickers, "You want me to kill you. To synthesize with you. To control you. But you know what happens with those three options? You still win. Sorry, buddy. You aren't gonna win this time. I know a loophole. And you know that I know a loophole. You also know I've planned on a loophole. But you aren't sure just what that is yet. It's funny too. I don't know either! So all this indoctrination? All this trouble? All for naught."

And then there is a loud bang.

I pull the trigger. I can see the tunnel of light, how it devours my mind and breaks apart my consciousness. I find it strange I'm able to contemplate much of anything at this point, since I just put a bullet in my head.

I have to tell myself that I'm not really dying. This is all just in my mind.

If I truly believe I am dying, the reapers will have me. I will fall. No. I am not dying. This is just a giant ploy. One big beautiful deathly ploy.

I watch all this, and I feel like I'm floating. Is this what omnipresence is? The ability to scope and see lives as they restructure themselves simultaneously? There is no time, no past, no present, no future. There are no questions, only answers. And I think to myself, swimming in this sea of black, this sea of change, this forest of the afterlife... I think to myself...

This is perhaps one of the most boring afterlife experiences I've ever had. You'd think reapers, with their billions upon billions of galactic civilizations that make up their consensus could come up with something a bit more creative.

It's then, that I can hear Vakarian's voice in the peripheral of my consciousness.

Breathe, Shepard. Breathe.

I take a moment to focus and I will my lungs to expand.

And when I awaken, in a field of dead husks and debris, commanding my lungs to breath in and out, in and out... focusing all my will power to live, I can't help but think to myself, 'God is dead. And I just fucking killed him.'

Followed by a voice.

"Breathe, Shepard."

I can hear him. He is close.

"Breathe, goddammit."

* * *

**Author's Note ::**  
Thanks for sticking around.


	2. The Oath

**THE FINAL PROBLEM  
Chapter Two: The Oath**

* * *

**Shepard**

I feel heavy, and my mind bobs in and out of a dull haze. I'm aware, but my body refuses to respond to internal commands. Open your eyes. Open your eyes. This isn't difficult. Just open your goddamn eyes. Move your arms. Turn your head. Dammit, open your fucking eyes. OPEN THEM.

"Good... Good she's breathing now" The voice is muffled. But I recognize Garrus's deep, buzzing inflection. He is close enough that I can feel the vibrating tones rattle my teeth, one of the many facets of turian speech they don't teach you about in school.

"She's breathing now, at least," A higher, softer voice responds. Liara. "You need to start retreating. You need to take her back to safety. Major Coats and I will continu-"

"Liara, we are so close. One long dash and we coul-"

"You have a better chance if you retreat. You need to get Shepard back to safety."

Why are they still here? Why are Liara and Garrus still here? Where are we? Where is the beacon? The Reaper? Why aren't we making a mad dash forward? There are so many noises. I can hear so many people dying around me. The smells. The smell of shit and guts and urine and dirt and seared flesh and seared exoskeletons... The cologne of death is a comfort to one such as I.

Just what memories were real? Which ones fabricated? Was I unconscious this entire time?

Where am I?

I want to move. I want to scream. But only time will tell if this is what a coma feels like or if I'm just paralyzed. Neither outcome would be welcome now. Or maybe... maybe...

I want to frown. I want to feel the satisfaction of my muscles pushing down the corners of my lips. I want to feel my brows knit together in a frustration. Instead, I am a cold vegetable that can't even open her eyes. I can hear, smell, taste, and touch but I can't fucking react. I have the mind of a savant, and I can't move. I want to hurl at this point.

This must be what Saren felt.

This must be what the Illusive Man feels. Felt. Feels... Is he even alive? Is he still here? Was that an illusion too?

Is Anderson alive?

My own memories betrayed me, my own instincts, and my own beliefs.

That is indoctrination.

How did they do it?

A word. An idea. That's how viruses manifest. They alter programming. But what? What word or idea did they alter?

I wish Mordin were here, I'd appreciate his professional opinion on the matter.

_'Well, technically speaking, the odds of recovering from indoctrination are... hmmm... Let's just say you aren't going to recover. Keep in mind that the process requires subtle manipulations of your brain waves. The Reapers alter your mind's functions and processes by using a current of electricity produced by their tech. Right now you are unable to move, its possible the reaper is trying to re-establish a connection to your neurological functions, hence your paralysis. I am sorry, but you will not come back from this. The good news is that you can still retain windows of control. But to be fair, that is merely a process of the indoctrination itself. There is no sure way of knowing if your actions are yours or a Reaper's.'_

_'Mordin. Just tell it to me straight.'_

_'Please, Shepard. Right now I am just talking to you as a figment of your imagination. You are conjuring me to convey what you already know, based on the evidence you've collected. You are perfectly aware you can't get out of this. You are a danger to yourself and everyone around you. But, there is a very slim possibility you can save yourself from permanent mental damage. It is surprising that you are aware of your own indoctrinated state. But...'_

_'... I have to defeat the reapers.'_

_'Fast. Now. Immediately. The more time you take, the less promising your recovery, and we are all doomed. Well, you are doomed. I'm technically dead. No point wasting your energy on me. Now off you go, I need to go back to doing something important in the deep recesses of your mind until you call on my opinion again. Off off, off you go.'_

I weigh this for a moment, determining whether I'm experiencing reality or if, in fact, I'm in another indoctrinated flash. There must be a way I can distinguish if I'm in control. I begin to take mental descriptions of my present state. I try to read into anything that might be suspicious or out-of-place. The child. That child... Everything involving that child was a lie. That was the link. Something about that link intrinsically changed something in my head. Some sort of something. It's how the virus is spreading. Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid. How can I regain some semblance of control?

I have to stop thinking. Thinking is how the virus spreads. Leaping from the electrical pulses in my brain, rewiring and networking it. I have to stop thinking.

I try to focus on the present. Not the past, not the future. Just the present. I can sit here and dwell, or I can assess my body's strengths and make myself move. By not thinking too far into the future and too deeply into the past, I'll be able to confine the virus.

Meditation. I will meditate. If a computer picked up a virus, the right thing to do is to reboot it. I will reboot my mind.

I choose to make myself move again.

From what I can gather, based on the snippets of orders, not to mention the noise of war around me, we are near the beacon. I'm not sure just how far, but if we can still hear banshees... it is a shallow tunnel. The smell of decay, feces, and blood mixed with musk and stale water confirms my suspicions. We are in a sewer tunnel.

The world is dark, though I can "see" my brain's interpretation of my eye structure's sensations and the pressures applied to them. The number one job of the brain is pattern recognition, so human brains are always trying to fit outside stimulus against a database of previous experience. In other words, you know all those lights you see when you close your eyes real tight in a dark room? That's our brain giving us visuals based on shit we've seen through the day. Our optical systems have a certain level of "noise" overwhelmed by the presence of light, and therefore images. What I'm seeing now is a certain frequency of electromagnetic radiation that comes from my eyelids, the photon - if you will.

In short, what I'm trying to say is that I am not blind. I can still see. Even if I am not able to open my eyelids, at least my eyes still function.

Suddenly, I feel a thick, armor encased embrace pull me off the ground. With little bravado, I'm tossed uncomfortably over someone's shoulder. I can't open my eyelids, and the world moves in darkness. Though, based on the low gruff, the rounded armor plate, and the elevation of my body, I am able to accurately guess that Garrus is my self elected pack mule this evening.

"Are you sure you'll be able to carry her? And still shoot?" Liara says.

"You think this is the first time I've lugged around our charming commander's unconscious body in the battle field? Liara. I'm the best person for the job."

He shifts his weight, pushing my frame closer to the nook between shoulder and neck, near the lip of his neck brace.

"Besides. She weighs at least 400 lbs. I'm a turian. This is just a field exercise. I'll stay in the back as my team moves as point. I've never been very good sitting in the front of the bus. You know that."

"Very well," Liara says.

I can hear Liara rustle and toss orders around faster than an asari on red sand. She separates our squad of forty-five into three parts. Liara's team is to head east, deeper into the underground tunnel's infrastructure. Major Coats will move west, with a few members of the Aralakh company and a mixed assortment of vanguards and engineers.

This leaves Garrus to control the third team - a handful of asari commandos, turian arms specialists, and a strong-arm of krogan battlemasters. In predictable Vakarian fashion, the infiltrator commands the unit to move ahead as he lags behind with me firmly fixed over his shoulder like a prize slab of meat. It makes sense. I can't move, and for all Garrus knows, I may shake awake at any moment. It's best I wake up away from something extra nasty, like a banshee-brute hybrid. God knows, I wouldn't be surprised if the Reapers started specializing their current weapons.

My heart restarted roughly ten minutes ago. I strain to hear any news involving Admiral Hackett. I don't know how long our air support can continue to maul down reapers in Earth space, and I don't know if there's still time to reach the Citadel, or even if my team should. I wish I could control my hands, my arms, my mouth, my lips. I wish I could manipulate my voice so that I can take control. There is information I have, important information. We mustn't reach the Citadel. We cannot reach the Citadel.

If we do so, the Reapers will have won. If my team is given the choice of control, synthesis, or destruction... the entire galaxy will burn.

I must wake up and warn them. But it's too late. Major Coats's slow, methodical foot steps with more weight placed on the right heel due to an injury he attained in my absence, disappears behind me with fifteen other bodies. Liara's careful, tense movement also vanishes into the distance, taking fifteen more. We should not separate. We must stay together. Too late, too bad... I try to stitch together another plan.

Did Anderson die? Why have I heard nothing about him..?

Is he dead?

I am a limp sack of bones, muscle, and organs tied together in a nice suit of armor and propped over a turian's shoulder. We keep moving, exploring certain corners only briefly as we tread. Garrus continues minimal radio contact with Liara and Major Coats, as they meet walls and dead ends. We are still able to move forward. Try to stay within a few minutes running distance. Continue searching.

Suddenly, there is a deep groan. The sound is a chilling echo, pricking my ears. I can feel the rise of goose-flesh cover the back of my neck as Garrus's careful tread stops. I can hear our men scramble for cover, the deep warble of biotic energy stitching a quilt of protection across the vicinity ahead. Garrus drops to his knee, pushing my body between the ground and a cold, metallic wall of some sort - probably a large pipe. I feel his hands press to my back as he breaks off the Black Widow's attachment from my armor. I can hear the gun whirr, parts and pieces dispatched from their compartmentalized state as it transforms into sniper rifle. As these sounds brush the air, I'm able to visualize Garrus dropping to his stomach close by - leveling the gun in his hands as he finds a balance between the ground, his strength, and the rifle. At this point, he's studying this unfamiliar playground of pipes, stale water, decay, and dark corners through my rifle's scope, details enhanced by his visor.

I feel naked and useless just lying here. Garrus is still an efficient leader, but our chances would fair better if I wake up. Between leading this team of men he does not know and protecting my paralyzed ass, he can only cover so much ground. If I manage to wake my body up from its comatose stupor, perhaps I'll be able to collect a smaller, hand-held semiautomatic pistol and start scouting the area - Garrus scoping from afar, with the asari and krogan covering the ground between us. It's an effective strategy.

"Aleesa. I need you to don on your cloaking device and check your 4 o'clock. I'll be covering you from back here..." Garrus mutters into his commlink. "Try not to get anything between us as you explore.. and be careful."

... Well fine, alright. Garrus can also be capable of good orders, don't get me wrong. I want to roll my eyes at the suggestion, however. I'm assuming Aleesa is an asari commando with infiltration training. Bad move, Garrus. You should not have sent an asari. A krogan? Most certainly. Quarian? Sure. But an asari? I'm not suggesting those blue skinned aliens aren't fantastic covert operators (of which they are quite talented). However, if there is anything I've learned in this war, asari do not handle mental warfare very well.

"... Yes sir... Approaching the banshee..."

Especially when mental warfare involves the bloated reflection of your own sisters.

Delighted that I'm able to hold my breath, and I do so for several moments - listening to my heart pulse in deep, rich rhythms. Between each beat, I can hear Garrus breath in an even whistle, each exhale interlaced with a subtle metallic rattle from his chest. I enjoy hearing him breath, beholding the odd nuances and differences between the human and turian respiratory system. The human body's chest cavity expands and contracts, moving with our soft squishy lungs as they draw breath. A turian's exoskeleton does not allow that race to transport oxygen through their circulatory systems. Rather, air reaches several tracheoles, such as the nostrils in front of Garrus' face and between the blades of his head fringe. Gas exchange, or what humans like to think of as breathing, accomplished by simple diffusion through the cell walls. Air enters the spiracles, and moves through the tracheal system.

"... Shepard?" Garrus whispers.

My attention pulls into the present, gaze fixed on my partner. I can see the faint glint of his eyes fixed on my features, mandibles flutter, the scales of his face shifting subtle patterns that I'm able to read. He's perplexed.. confused? Garrus almost drops the rifle as he shifts his weight backwards, a strange mixture of human and turian expressions plastering his movements. He is very confused. Garrus is very distraught. But why? Why isn't he grateful that I've managed to open my eyes, that I'm not fully paralyzed or in a coma?

"No... Dear spirits, no..." Garrus mutters, shaking his head, still staring at me.

I raise my hands to my face, the pinpricks of nerves breaking the lifeless spell my body was under. I kick my feet, a stabbing pain searing through cold, tired muscles. I wince with delight. I test each muscle, rolling my shoulders, moving my back, flexing my wrists, popping my knuckles, and appreciating each responding joint. I am alive. I am well. My body can move. I am not badly damaged. I push my body's weight onto the balls of my feet, balancing myself as I walk hunched over. I turn my head and regard Garrus, the fear and confusion still plastered across his face in a hybrid of different expressions. While I am very good at reading the emotional states of others, I have not mastered the art of conveying my own emotional state. I have to remind myself that even turians find comfort by reading physical expressions and features, much like humans.

I lock my jaw, the muscles clicking as I grind my teeth slightly. I flare my nostrils and puff my cheeks, envisioning the blue tattoos of Garrus' home state expanding and shifting across my face in ways much more familiar to the other turian. I am demanding he tell me what has him perturbed.

The turian shakes his head, mandibles locked close to his jaw, gaze fixed on the ground and teeth emitting a soft rattle. I have never seen this expression from him before, though I do know it. Turians often speak in two different physical languages, one in public, the other reserved for private use. These private 'conversations' is a language between equals - a rare feature in a race dominated by hierarchy and stations of power. These expressions are typically reserved for twins, and on rarer circumstances, partners. Garrus' motion troubles me.

The officer draws close, hawkish eyes fixed on mine. His gaze twitches back and forth, studying my eyes in a game that is both uncomfortable and dizzying for me. I dislike eye contact almost as much as I hate being touched or insulted, so I bite my lip and force myself to read the details of his features from our close proximity, and always from a purely logical point of view. The elements that compose his metallic exoskeleton, the crushed ultramarine blue beetle shells and minerals that color the facial tattoos I share with him, the placement of each facial plate over the soft, unexposed pockets of fles-

"Shepard. Your eyes," Garrus whispers.

No... no no no no... I draw my hands around the Black Widow and pull it from Garrus' grip. Swallowing, I turn my attention to the scope, regarding my face's reflection against the contour of the glass. I have sustained several scratches, the eerie red glow of my scars stitched across my right cheek and across my nose, interrupting the beautiful blue geometry of tattoos Jack had inked a year ago. Soft whisps of brown hair frame my head, reminding me once more how much I just wanted to shave the damn hair off but Liara reminded me that many races, including asari, found human hair attractive and that hair was a necessary tool of manipulation if I wanted to garner support across news networks. But that's not exactly what alarms me.

A pair of luminescent, bright blue eyes peer at me from behind the unruly brown bangs, pale flesh, and turian face paint. A strange triangular pattern has formed across the sharp color, each point fixed with a circle. The irises are dazzling and remind me that a virus is spreading infection across my brain.

I turn to Garrus and brace my hands on his shoulders, "Listen to me, Garrus. Listen to me. I know how this looks-"

"Shepard," Garrus responds, refusing to meet my gaze this time. "Shepard, I know what indoctrination looks like."

"Listen to me," I hush. "I am still in control. I was very close to slipping, but I am still here. I am still here, Garrus. And like it or not, you still need me to stay alive. You need me to finish this war. Don't do anything rash. We are so close."

"I made an oath," The turian reminds me, his voice strained. "You made me swear, Jane."

The name. That damned stupid name. He had to fucking use that name. I hated that name. It wasn't even my real name. It was just a piss poor excuse to be funny, when I signed up as Officer Jane Doe when I was 16 and used anger to fill the cavity my life on Earth left. Fuck that name. It was just another slave's name, an identification that told the world I belonged to the Alliance. I grit my teeth and narrow my eyes at Garrus, who only used that name when he was serious. Garrus fucking Vakarian, who was never serious except when he absolutely needed. Turians never call their higher ranking officers by first name. Never. Its taboo. But the action wasn't suppose to be turian. It was Vakarian for I am talking to you as if I was a human, since I know you wouldn't listen to me if I tried to talk to you like a turian. I am being deadly serious.

I flare my nostrils and raise my jaw, and I don't want to look at him. But I do. I fucking lock eyes with him. I will not look away.

Garrus sighs, mandibles relax as he head tilts at a slight incline with those sharp eyes still bracing mine. "You made me swear..." His hand is out, emphasizing this point as he chops it through the air. "You. You made me swear... I've never sworn for anything, Jane. You know that I don't make vows. But I did swear on this..."

I narrow my eyes and I'm about to answer when the air around us whistles and cracks with electricity. I can feel the hair across my arms rise under my armor as the charge pulses through my body. The smell of burnt hair singes the area. My burnt hair. Quickly, I push my legs out from under my body, black widow tucked under my arm as my free hand whips out to grab Garrus by the lip of his chest plate. Roughly, I pull him over the other side of our barrier, a loud SNAP knocking our bodies off-balance and across our landing by several feet. A warped trail follows the blast, light bending in an uneven reflection. My eyes cannot register the disturbance, though I can see a flash of deep purple hues and the blurred, distorted figure of a bloated, gray body. There is a soft cry, followed by a deadly scream that echos in a synthesized loop, the sound ringing my ears and rattling my senses.

Banshee.

I throw my cloaking device on, the light bending and hiding my figure as I push myself from a crawl to a run, stumbling as I distance myself from the slow, disjointed movements of the asari mutant. Her knees push into a strange pigeon toe, crippling her movements. She swings her hips from left to right, trying to control her muscles, forcing the banshee to move only by shuffling from side to side. Her lips and nose are chewed off, blue grey skin peeling in large patches across her naked body. Eezo poisoning had broken down her cellular structure, giving her a toothless maw. The massive aura of biotics made the thing twitch in unpredictable patterns. The banshee was obviously in pain, and one of the most effective weapons the reapers had designed thus far - She is terrifying to look at, and terrifying to deal with.

Garrus rolls to his feet, racing to gain some ground between the banshee and himself. He throws himself to my direction, neatly landing his shoulder into the ground and flipping his body back onto the toes of his arched feet. The creature has not registered his quick movement, a dead gaze trailing the space we had occupied, dragging across the ground as it follows our trail.

"What are you doing?" I hiss, reprogramming the black widow to spit out a pinpoint electrical charge with the next shot I take. I pull back the lever, enjoying the feel of the rifle's movement and my muscles rippling as my fingers manipulate the platinum lever. I raise the gun and take a deep, long breath - absorbed by my chest as it rises, stale oxygen stretching my lungs.

"Do you trust me?" Garrus asks.

I narrow my eyes. Is this a test? Is he testing me? Will he kill me if I fail? Would Vakarian actually kill me? Right now?

It's possible. I made Garrus swear that if I showed any signs of indoctrination... Garrus is my failsafe. Garrus... Garrus is a turian. Turians do not break their oaths, it doesn't matter who they grow to love or respect or care for. Turians do not swear easily, and when they do, they see their promises to the end lest it break them.

Garrus does not have a choice. I would not have made him swear if he did not keep his word.

I narrow my lips and gaze through the scope, lifting my rifle and preparing my body for a recoil that can tear off an untrained person's arm. I whistle through my teeth, finding that perfect pitch. I can hear the soft rattle of Garrus' 'breathing', the splintery wheeze of the banshee's exhale, and the staccato of my heart beat fluttering under my breast. I see the pinpoint of my sniper rifle's laser shift and warp as it searches the wall behind the mutant creature, drifting across the pockets and potholes of her decaying flesh, over the expanse of her draping breasts, touching her throat until the red dot paints the tip of the banshee's gums red.

I see her mouth slowly opening with a simper, revealing blackened gums and patches of rotting teeth with nerves dancing between open spaces. I see her jaw unhinge, burrowing deep into her neck as her head peels back - the gape widening as she prepares to scream.

"I trust you," I answer Garrus, pulling the trigger back and all fifty pounds of resistance. My arm numbs as it often does as the recoil kicks, and I see the red laser turn into a fountain of black blood spilling from the mouth of this creature as the top half of her head elegantly pops off.

They never have brains. None of them ever do, regardless of the model.

I turn to meet my fate when I feel a blunt knock hit the back of my head. My vision turns into black spots, and I can't help but wonder when I will see the brain chemical reaction that many humans confuse for the after life or a tunnel of light. I've experienced it once before and it was a fascinating experience. I expect it. There is some relief to this, you know. I've died once before, and the passing was nice. A part of me tires from fighting, tires of trying to beat this indomitable enemy. And for what? So a few ungrateful species can live? Why should they live? I am no hero. I have no stake in this.

"I made an oath to you, Jane."

I can hear Garrus. I think I am turning. Am I turning? I do not know. I'm dazed. I'm in a stupor. I'm confused.

"You know how turians feel about oaths," Garrus swallows. I can almost see the blue tattoos shift across his face as he speaks, even as darkness pervades my senses. "...But I've never been a very good turian."

I want to say 'I know', but instead my words are a strange garble of syllables as my tongue speaks a language my poor dysfunctional brain can't control. The lights and shapes fade into a haze and I feel my body being lifted as my ears ring with the distant sounds of things around me.

I know I'm indoctrinated. The true me would never give up. The true me would never give in so easily to some stupid oath I assigned Garrus with. The true me would do anything to see the reapers lose, just for the sheer, psychotic satisfaction.

The true me would see these loopholes for what they are. She always did. And while I fear for the future of our galaxy, now resting on the shoulders of a turian who never played by the rules, the true me just laughs. She laughs hard at the reapers manipulating my mind and my body. She laughs long and hard, as Garrus knocks me out before I can completely sabotage this last run.

The true me laughs in satisfaction, I wait in fear.

* * *

**Author's Note ::**

Indoctrination fascinates me. One does not simply recover. One slowly falls apart.


	3. The Knight's Move

**This chapter does mention a few points made in Kingdom of Rust - namely certain tattoos and oaths. But it is still pretty standalone.**

**THE FINAL PROBLEM**

**Chapter Three: The Knight's Move**

* * *

**Garrus**

There is something about war that puts a spirit at ease. Especially the pauses between rounds. I love the quiet moments where you skirt across the edge of a contained field, head down, body covered. It gives you time to think, to really evaluate your next move. While they are busy reloading their guns or picking out shrapnel from their torn up arms, you have time to stay one step ahead of the enemy. You have time to breathe before he does. You have time to line up that last shot before he's able to do a damn thing. It's a game or a ballad. And I'm a damn good dancer, if I do say so myself.

Out here, all of my senses come alive. I'm more choreographed and in synch with my team. I feel less like a turian and more like a machine; I am an extension of Shepard's arm. I'm a valuable piece in the greater war between artificial life and living beings. I'm a soldier, through and through. I was born an agent of war, and I will die a vigilante. It is just what I am. It's pointless to deny my nature.

That's what Shepard taught me. The day she met me, she made it very clear what my role was in her 'greatest game.' At first, I was just a throwaway. I was just a pawn in this game of chess. So I learned how to remove my weaknesses while I was still aware of them.

Its hard, though. It's really hard to detach from your emotions, you'd be willing to sacrifice just about anything to get the job done.

I'm not very good at that.

Shepard knew that too. One of her favorite games involved reproaching these attachments.

_"You need to stop getting so close to people," _Shepard said._ "If you get too close, you make stupid mistakes. Look at Omega. You trusted Sidonis, and look how he betrayed you. You can't trust, Garrus. Not turians, not humans, no one. Only the mission. Or else, they die."_

Harsh truths are still truths. I refuse to change my nature, so I moved my attachment's direction. I think Shepard knew, in some corner of her hard heart, that my admiration had blossomed into some sort of love for her. It was a solution to the perfect problem. For our mission's best interest, I remained detached from everyone else but her. I would keep Shepard alive as long as this cycle of genocide continued, even at my life's expense. I became her guardian angel.

I thought adopting the human term 'Archangel' was a beautiful momento to her, when she died.

Hardly.

My admiration did not please her.

At all.

_"You aren't getting the point," _she said_. "You are only going to get yourself killed."_

_"You may not like it, but you are just going to have to deal with it."_

I know Shepard extraordinarily well, for as long as I've shadowed her. That woman's life depends on how well I know her. I can't list off all the times I accurately predicted she'd dodge just as I'd shoot a trap, instead of rolling directly into the cloud of red sand. Even off the field, I've saved her ass from one too many Cerberus assassin. Though, Shepard's true failing is her inert social skills. Unless that person works under her heel or over her head, she is absolutely incapable of navigating political or social waters.

Even with all the charisma and charm my mother gave me, I've never really been able to get past that thick outer plate. Shepard claims she is a soldier and a machine, but I've seen the breaks between the shell on occasion. I know her too well. The same skills that keep her alive, pair to see glimpses behind the callous, cruel façade.

It takes an unbelievably horrible life to break someone so deeply that they ultimately reform into the perfect soldier. You aren't born distrusting everyone, that takes years and years of abuse. I don't know her full story, but I do know she's been hurt very deeply by some bad people. I know. I've broken up slave rings in my line of work. I've seen the kind of cruelty that turns good people into broken dolls. People aren't born that apathetic and that detached. You have to really suffer. Maybe its one of the reasons why I really don't like gangs. Maybe its one of the reasons why I tried to clean out Omega after she died, to stop other children from getting dealt the same hand. Maybe I wanted to save her so badly, I could only save kids who had it just as rough before they could mature into complex, people hating killers.

_"Don't think I wouldn't think twice about killing you if it meant saving the galaxy," she once told me, the blue arches of her tattoos shifting across her pale, soft face in a strange mixture of human and turian expression._

_"I try not to think about it," I'd answer, glaring at her as I pulled back my armor and revealed the N7 tattoo inked between exposed chest plates. She rolled her eyes in typical human dismissal and walked away._

Right now, Shepard is not rolling her eyes and walking away.

I could feel her breathing. I've been told that turians have an enhanced sense of touch compared to other species. Our bodies are hollow, a giant exoskeleton that supports a various network of nerves, blood vessels, and organs inside. I've evolved to feel vibrations that ring through the ground, the subtle shifts buzzing against my knee as I bridge the butt of my sniper rifle against my left shoulder. I the constant reminder that Shepard isn't dead yet.

"Aleesa. I need you to don on your cloaking device and check your 4 o'clock. I'll be covering you from back here..." I mutter into my commlink. "Try not to get anything between us as you explore.. and be careful."

It's probably not the wisest idea to send out an asari commando after a banshee, but I have limited choices. Hopefully, by the time she reaches the creature, she'll provide a distraction long enough for me to line a beautiful shot and bang the dead thing against the head until it falls.

My muscles relax as I control my breathing. It is a rasped, familiar pattern that rushes through my body. I can feel the oxygen travel across the plates of my body, the exoskeleton vibrating slightly from the gas exchange. I meditate on this as my eyes follow Aleesa into the darkness. I remain still, vision shifting from section to section as I strain to hear any sounds of static or warped energy fields. Banshees were notorious for sneaking right up on you. Not all of them screamed before biting your face off, some of them liked to take a more casual, teleport-to-invasion approach.

I focus long enough to realize something's... off. Something's not right... the ground's vibrations have changed. A subtle change, but different nonetheless. Quickly, I glance back where I placed Shepard. She has stopped breathing.

I am tense and I can feel my limbs stiffen with fear.

"Shepard?" I whisper. Oh please don't be dead. Not now. Please not now, don't be dead. I can't do this right no-

Shepard is still where I left her, body to the ground and firmly pushed against the nook of a rusted pipe. Her head turns sharply to meet my voice, and I wince with a mixture of fear and delight. Good. She is not dead. Shepard is alive and well. I study the woman for a moment, relaxing momentarily as my eyes drink in the full details of her visually, visor registering her physical and heat signature. She raises her brows. The relief exists for a beat, and then a profound sadness dawns on me. The rich, familiar spectrum of her eyes do not meet mine. Instead, her face is faintly illuminated by a pair of intensely electrical-blue optics, a pattern of triangles centering each pupil. A sick feeling overcomes me, nausea gripping both my stomachs. I do not recognize this woman.

I lean backwards, staring. "No... Dear spirits... no..."

Shepard stares at me. I'm withdrawn. I feel nothing but repulsion, anger, confusion, and uncertainty. The human rolls her shoulders, a staccato of cracks expelling from tired joints as she twists, stretches, and bends. Still, my eyes don't leave hers. Her dead gaze is both empty and hollow.

I've been told that humans only have three color cones in their eyes, allowing them only to see shades of red, green, and blue. Turians have evolved with a wider palette of five cones. As such, I'm able to perceive the static flicker of her ...optics, and how the colors shift in a strange melting pot of blues and reds, pulsing with her heart beat's vibration. There is a virus behind those eyes. It is spreading across her brain. I can see hints of its manifestation, the eerie red glow of her scars shifting into an ultraviolet spectrum. But... But she's not entirely gone. The way she moves, how she flexes, how her brows shift and her face morphs into a strange melting pot of turian and human expressions, emphasized by the blue tattoos across high cheekbones and a wide-set jaw... She's still there. She's not entirely gone.

She just doesn't know she's indoctrinated. Not yet.

"Shepard," I mutter gingerly. "Shepard, your eyes."

She cocks one of her brows, arching it above her visor. But I can see the realization melting into the blank canvas of her face. The woman reaches out, snatching the Black Widow from my arms and inspecting her reflection inside the morphed bulbous scope.

The gun drops. I can feel the weight of her hands push into my shoulders. "Listen to me Garrus. Listen to me. I know how this looks-"

I turn my head and refuse to meet her gaze. This is not Shepard. Shepard would not beg for her life. The Shepard I know, the real Shepard, would turn her gun on herself and shoot. This person, this thing in her head is manipulating me. This creature is manipulating me. I can't look at her.

"Shepard," I respond. "Shepard, I know what indoctrination looks like."

"Listen to me," She hushes uncharacteristically. "I am still in control."

Who is this person? This is not Shepard. This is a stranger.

Once I was told that when humans experience the full weight of despair, they expel water from their faces. Some human cultures find this expression revolting, while others praise this feature of emotional attachment. Quarians are also capable of crying, and praised for the emotional outpour. Secretly, I imagine crying is a great way to relieve the burden of hard feelings.

Turians don't cry. While our cultures are many and varied, we are still very much biologically the same. We are not equipped to cry, and our heritage ensures the difficulty of expressing sadness. We are not very good at being sad. It's a very unorthodox emotion. Happiness is acceptable, heartbreak is not. We don't even have a word in the common tongue for 'mourn'. How can we mourn the dead when there is so much life around us?

It was Shepard who taught me human expressions and emotions. I know of sadness, and I know this is what it is.

Shepard is indoctrinated.

There can only be one outcome.

"I made an oath," I remind her. "You made me swear, Jane."

Suddenly, I don't feel as magnificent as I used to.

I remember Shepard a year ago. We were hours before the Omega mission. Just a day earlier, the collectors gutted the Normandy. The reapers played a hard move, wiping out Shepard's team before she could dive into the bowels of the universe. Something about that invasion almost completely unhinged her. Shepard's decision to let off steam by attacking the remaining special ops team hours before a suicide mission did not sit well with XO Miranda Lawson.

Especially since Shepard had the audacity to start a hand-to-hand combat ring right in front of the woman's office.

I remember very clearly her distraught and fear, that there might come a day when she maybe indoctrinated. Shepard was so fearful her artificial implants were somehow stemmed from reaper technology. Sidonis rooted her paranoia's impressions, cemented by her own encounters with indoctrinated soldiers. The idea of a virus mutilating her mind and manipulating her decisions was too much to swallow.

Shepard made me swear to kill her if there were any hints or signs she was endearing indoctrination.

Turians do not take oaths lightly, least of all this turian. Especially an oath to a woman I admire and love. A human I've tacked all my hopes, dreams, desires, earthly attachments, and feelings on. It was easier, once upon a time ago, to follow a chivalrous, knightly adoration for my commander. She made me feel so magnificent and brilliant... The oath was woven by a quilt of this perfect, platonic, one directional love. She threaded it together so well, the seems built upon the rare and painful truth that we were now both aware of - Shepard, broken perfect soldier that she was, trusted me and only me to carry out this grave deed.

The one being who loved her beyond flaws, seams, and broken pieces would have to kill her. The one person she trusted in this entire, little jewel of a galaxy, she trusted to kill her.

So why the hell do I feel so reluctant? Why the hell can't I do it?

I stare at her, this stranger invading my friend's body. Her skin has become sallow, the subtle shade of blue veins peeking through paper-thin skin.

Why do I feel so reluctant to kill her? How could she trust me to carry this out?

_"Don't deny your nature," Shepard, my Shepard, the real Shepard, would say. "You make for a shitty turian. But I also make for a pretty shitty human. Your pretty flawed, Garrus. But even flaws are advantageous."_

_"You'll always just see me as a chess piece in this big game between you and the reapers," I chuckled. "Not everything is a battlefield."_

_"Yes it is," Shepard would say, rejecting the notion that anything wasn't purely conscripted to fighting or strategy. "There may come a day when the chess piece realizes he has to play the game for a turn or two. Flawed as he might be, unable to control the board as he is... The chess master may not be able to move him, but its all part of the main strategy. Don't expect me to always make your move, Garrus."_

_"What, you trust me to make a move without your say?"_

_"Whose to say I didn't plan it that way all along?" She'd stare at me for a moment. "Don't deny your instincts. I trust them to do the right thing."_

That is what the real Shepard would say.

I watch this stranger as she whips the gun around crouches low, sliding the weapon perfectly against the arch of her arm as she draws the full weight against her shoulder. Her reflexes seem so mechanical and strange to my eye, lacking the fluidity and unpredictable fire inherit in her typical combative nature. There is no admiration in my heart as she trains the scope on the banshee I had hunted earlier. I do not aid her as she draws in breath between her nostrils in eerie fluidity, timed beautifully as her muscles flex - finger trained and splitting the trigger. The banshee's blackened, rotting mouth opens - a soft whimper escaping the monster's throat as the energy bullet and shrapnel peels back the ivory bone of her skull and upper jaw.

She's distracted by the kill. I take this opportunity to rush forward and slam my forehead into the back of Shepard's head. The vibrations rattle my exoskeleton, but its the only way I can take her down without cracking her fragile human skull wide open. She sinks into my arms, gun and body dropping into a 400 pound pool of prosthetics, human flesh, bones, and armor.

"You know how turians feel about oaths," I swallow, picking out some gauze from the medical pack attached to her side. There is an unfamiliar expression pressing the corners of her face, morphing the tattoo across her face. I do not know this expression. It is probably human. But it is most certainly not Shepard's. "...But I've never been a very good turian."

With little bravado, I wrap her head and hands in the gauze. If I want to keep this woman alive and her indoctrinated state a secret, I have to cover her. If roles reversed, Shepard would undoubtedly kill me. Without hesitation. However, I am not her and she is not me, so circumstances are different.

Shepard planned this. I don't know how or why, but the real Shepard, the one I know does not make mistakes, even during a massive reaper invasion. There's always a strategy, always a way to manuever and alter the tide's direction. But whatever plan or strategy Shepard may or may not have formulated, is something the reapers would be able to pry from her mind now.

I've always been a chess piece in this disturbing game she plays against machines, I've always been the ace up her sleeve, the knight on the board, that last mahjong tile. And she'd remind me of my place, again and again and again as we played these games in the weapons room, reminding me how tiny I was in the greater schemes of her plans. Just a tiny little piece, just another throwaway chip in this war against the reapers. Her war against the reapers.

I am her greatest act to date. I guess even the reapers would never have anticipated that the Knight and the Chess Master would switch places during the very last moments of play.

I sigh and hoist the woman up onto my shoulders, sliding the sniper rifle back into its compartment as I begin to tread further into the deep canals of this underground sewer. I know she won't remain unconscious forever. Her fragile, human body won't allow me to keep that up without causing some severe damage to the brain and skull. But its the pause I need, that pause between the round. I just need this quiet moment as I skirt across the edge of this contained field, weighed down by her body, her armor, and her guns. This moment will give me time to think, and time to check my next move.

Just enough time to line up that last shot.

And I'm a damn good shot, if I do say so myself.

* * *

**Author's Note ::**

Nothing to report here. The oath is mentioned in Kingdom of Rust. Shepard made Garrus swear to kill her if the Reapers managed to indoctrinate her. It was a very tense chapter that cemented the deep trust between these two. They may not be lovers in the sexual sense, but they are undoubtedly partners.


	4. Running up that Hill

**THE FINAL PROBLEM**

**Chapter Four: Running up that Hill**

* * *

**Garrus**

Vakarian and Shepard. Turian and human. Two heat sinks lined for the shot. Two cheek plates from the same face. Two peas in a pod, is the human expression. Or is that a human cliche? I guess I had this scenario running in my head that once this war blew over, we'd be able to work together and break apart Omega from its core. A united galaxy is a short-term bandage over the racism and intolerance that has torn worlds apart, but there will always be criminals taking advantage of the system. While war would no longer exist, it'd be a nice break for Shepard and I to finally disappear from the spotlight and start working independently. We are both spectacular marksman with highly selective and specialized training. I'm shit at infiltration at close quarters, and it would be fun to revel in Shepard's expert ability to cloak and hack while keeping her ass spotted.

I even toyed with the idea of creating a specialized military unit with her, something akin to Spectres but with reverse principles.

Instead of keeping the galaxy in check for the Council, our aim would be to keep the Council in check for the galaxy.

_"The problem with people in power, is power absolutely corrupts," _Shepard would say. _"I don't trust people with power. Never have, never will."_

It'd be nice.

I wonder what we'd call our unit?

"I know you wouldn't agree to _The Archangels_," I state out loud to the unconscious slab of Shepard thrown over my shoulder. "But you have to admit. It does have a ring."

The Archangels. I wonder who else would be interested in joining? Tali would be busy with the Flotilla, working as a go-between during quarian and geth relations. No doubt Miranda Lawson might cherish the idea of jumping aboard, and Liara could alter the original function of the Shadow Broker as the primary money and network behind our unit. We would be an institution independent of the Citadel, and shadow organization meant to keep up absolute galactic order. To nip corruption before it arrises. EDI and Joker might be inclined to leave the Alliance and borrow the Normandy for our own devices. Javik might also be inclined to give training for shock troops. It was a solid plan for the future.

I like planning for the future. It gives me a reason to seize it, to really protect that future. It gives me hope that I'll see a future. Gives me something to fight for.

I step around a pile of torn up husks, raising my brow plates as my scanner reads any residual heat and time checks the decay. These tunnels went mostly unused. Little evidence suggested few past skirmishes. For the most part, the Alliance was able to gut out the tunnels and keep them predominately secure. The downside to the Reapers's quick takeover was their lack of planning. While they may have guns, tech, and armies over us, we still had better knowledge over our own territory. Not to mention the Reapers's unfortunate knack for underestimating our little organic minds.

I grimace. I'm planning as I go along.

This whole running-around-underground felt tacked on at the very last-minute by Major Coats. After Shepard shoved both mine and Liara's ass into evacuation during the rush for ground zero, we watched in horror as she a Reaper blast knocked her backwards. It doesn't take two and two to realize exactly what Liara and I did next.

We quickly pulled her ass out of the war zone.

The Normandy had to drop us. It was too risky to jeopardize the ship. She was too damn close to the beacon, and therefore too close to the Reaper hovering over said beacon. We dropped out of the ship with the Mako, some quick thinking on Specialist Traynor's part. We were able to collect her and Admiral Anderson before the final push. The plan ended in failure. We were not able to reach the beacon directly, to which I'd like to say, "Well, of course we didn't reach the beacon directly. What sort of idiot plan was this, anywa-"

Actually, I did say that.

_"That wasn't the full plan," Major Coats cut me off. "That was the diversion."_

_"THAT was a diversion!? Who the hell are you?"_

_"Yes. The Alliance Grounds Army ordered me to coordinate and send her and Anderson as a diversion."_

_"What?! Anderson is an Admiral! How did this go over his head?"_

_"We are not under fleet authority. This is not an airstrike, this is a seige. She followed orders, my orders, and yours," Major Coats pointed out, as Liara swung her arms around the wheel to throw the Mako off its center of gravity and pitch it aside. "Dr. T'Soni, follow course to coordinates 23,32,54..."_

_"Major, you have to tell me what is going on. You are leading a blind party," I shouted._

_"Vakarian. This is not Shepard's mission. You are not in command. This is a fight for Earth, Alliance jurisdiction. You will have to follow our orders. Or have you forgotten that there maybe spies among us? That Reaper should NOT have anticipated us, but it did because intel had gathered a hunch."_

_"You risked us for a hunch..."_

_"...One or possibly more of the seige's forces are indoctrinated," Major Coats snapped. "Let us pray those spies died back there and aren't among us."_

Shortly after that announcement, Liara, Major Coats, our unconscious cargo, and I managed to throw ourselves out of the Mako and slide into a sewer passage a mile outside of the beacon. We barricaded the tunnel's entrance, leaving behind massive ground support to push back the waves of enemy support.

Sometime after we entered the tunnels, Anderson's heart stopped. Liara tried to revive him, but it was too late. A stray bullet punctured his lung, and we had to leave him behind. After he died, Major Coats found a massive bruise planted on his face after I punched him in the jaw. It was worth it. Ten minutes later, Shepard stopped breathing. Liara spent the next minute scrambling to revive her while I punched Major Coats in the stomach. It was a tense sixty seconds. I doubt Liara really thought she'd have to bring Shepard back to life again. But true to her unyielding loyalty and unstoppable determination, we managed to bring Shepard back from the dead.

And now Shepard is alive, she is well, and she's indoctrinated.

It's ironic that the one person bent on killing the Reapers is also the one person who betrayed the siege. I wonder if the Reapers, realizing their spy had potentially become a greater liability than an asset, attempted to suffocate her or stopped her heart. The fact Reapers are capable of manipulating the body's details unsettles me.

_"Don't lose sight of the goal," Shepard would say. "I trust your instincts."_

I sigh and shift her weight over the other shoulder, refraining from making a stupid joke about how Shepard could stand to lose one hundred or two hundred pounds of prosthetics in the future. Not only would it be easier to haul her around, but it might do wonders for her figure. It's a clumsy joke, and I chortle despite myself while treading through the sewer tunnels.

My scanner's global positioning software is haywire, networks likely confused and hacked by the Reapers. I know where North is, however. Turians have evolved to 'read' planetary magnetic fields. Before we discovered agriculture, turians were a nomadic species that often migrated to locations designated by Spirit Ancestors. Science later downplayed the ancestors, proving we weren't guided by the dead, but rather that our metallic exoskeletons are magnetized. GPS would be helpful, but I can get by without one. Major Coats, Liara, and I were approaching the Citadel's transport beam in three different directions. Coats reminded us that we were not to make direct radio contact with each other, to weed out spies among our three parties._  
_

_"Garrus, if you follow the tunnel south, you should exit safely at a rendezvous point. Take your team and bring Shepard to safety."_

_"She wouldn't want to run away," I argued._

_"It doesn't matter what she wants. Were it up to her, she'd throw the entire galaxy in flames just for the satisfaction of destroying the Reapers."_

_"He's right and you know it," Liara defended. "I care for the commander as much as you do, but we both know the lengths she'd go..."_

_The truth is a bitter pill to swallow sometimes. "Fine."_

_"Keep her safe."_

That was the plan. Was, being the key word. Until irony bit us in the ass and turned Shepard into her own worst enemy. Now I have no choice but to operate alone, outside chain of command. No one is my ally at this point. I had to do this by myself. No matter where I'd go, Shepard wouldn't be safe. How can you save someone from their own mind? But I'm also not about to kill her, either. Or betray her by revealing her condition. I trust the Alliance as little as I do the Council, or Cerberus, or any other organization that surrounds itself with guns and claims to protect people. Shepard trusted only herself, and I only trust Shepard.

_"I trust your instincts," _Shepard would say.

Well, my instincts tell me to keep her alive at all costs and haul ass towards the shiny Citadel beacon, deeper into these damn sewer tunnels, further into the labyrinth of human decay. Granted, my brain is telling me this is a terrible idea. Who the hell would drag an indoctrinated super soldier into the enemy's base for a cup of tea and conversation? My gut instincts have an uncanny ability to make absolutely no sense whatsoever., and when it came down to it, they were always right.

I'm not about to kill the only friend left I have in this tiny, might soon cease to exist, galaxy.

"What will we do once we are in the Citadel?" I ask the unconscious bag of mixed flesh and armor thrown haphazardly over my shoulder as I trod forward. At this point, I've already detached myself from my team. I do not know what horrors they will meet, but my destination does not involve leaving these winding tunnels. I don't know when they will realize I've gone missing, or if they will even bother checking. I am a marksman, and my place is supposed to be in the very background. They may not find out I am gone until they begin to search blindly for orders, to which they will likely assume the Banshee killed us and follow the chain of command down to Aleesa.

As far as they are concerned, I am dead.

"I assume you have some inkling... Maybe..." I mutter. I'm a very talkative person, and I find some worth in my unconscious company. Her silent banter is no different from her usual (silent) responsiveness, though less negative and even more encouraging.

"How did they do it, anyways? Get into your head?" I ask. "I mean, you of all people... you always had a plan, I imagined you'd be the last person they'd be able to cut through..."

"I thought so too," Shepard replies.

My blood runs cold.

Shepard shifts her weight across my shoulder. I can feel her body finding some gravity, some movement, and some purpose. I sigh, roll my eyes (A human expression I find very, very satisfying), and proceed to drop her on the ground nonchalantly.

Her hands are tied behind her back. She's been stripped of weapons. Gauze blindfolds her eyes. I can still see the hints of ultraviolet that has altered her skin into a strange, nauseating mixture of synthetic and organic color tones. The alteration isn't nearly as external as, say, Saren, but I can still tell there is something off kilter about her body. The internal prosthetics deceive her. She does not look human, or an off colored human. Her coloration is off.

"Indoctrination is a mystery," Shepard states. "You think you'd understand it, but you can't unless you are going through it. It manifests in many forms, but the way it tricks organics... the way it initially roots itself... there is a pattern."

I'm not sure when I should knock her unconscious. Or if I should. I need to listen to her. She's not Shepard, not my Shepard, not the Shepard I know, but she's still a version of Shepard which is better than no version at all, and this version is sharing information that may or may not be helpful. Any information is better than none.

"I thought you were stronger than this," I mutter.

"I did too, Garrus. But the Reapers find a way to plant this idea, Garrus," Shepard swallows. "That's how they do it. It's like a word. When you really understand that word, that's when the virus manifests itself. Love, Garrus. Love. Free Will. Alive. Freedom. When you really understand that word's meaning, can visualize it, at its very core, they tear at your mind and alter you. Once they are able to redefine the true meaning of an essential idea, you're trapped. That word has changed. You are their property."

"What do you mea-"

"Remember what Legion said. Remember when we reprogrammed the Heretic Geth. Indoctrination is no different. Once an essential idea is reprogrammed, that's it."

"Are you... warning me?"

"I don't know," Shepard states, helplessly. "I don't know if I'm talking or if they are talking, or if I have some control or they are letting me feel like I have some control so they can further control me. I don't know."

This is difficult, and I can feel my hearts seize up again. "How long have you been indoctrinated, Shepard?"

"They planted the virus in my head during the day of Earth's invasion."

"... Shit."

Shepard nodded, acknowledging the gravity of the situation. "They always knew, Garrus. That's how the Illusive Man was able to uncover our plans involving the Catalyst early on. They used me as a spy, and they used him to block our advances. They always knew. They've always known. There's a possibility that all of our victories were only games tossed in by the Reapers to makes us feel like we have a winning chance. There's a possibility I lost Thessia intentionally."

"You've cooperated with them this entire time!?" I'm beginning to lose my nerve.

"Not by choice," Shepard states. "I don't remember talking to them. I don't remember at all. I do not know. All I know is that, for whatever reason, I set you up as a loophole. I don't even know why, but I do know that I had anticipated the possibility of indoctrination. You are the galaxy's last chance, Vakarian. Don't fuck it up."

I grimace and step backwards, a hiss whistling out of the hollow cavity of my chest as the various plates across my body flex in tension. "Are there any clues, any at all on what the hell I'm suppose to do?"

Shepard shrugged, jaw flinching and causing the blue tattoos across her face to shift across her skin, just over soft facial muscles in her strange, clipped, turian expressions. "No, of course not. If I knew, the Reapers would have used me to stop you. I'm actually quite pleased with my stroke of brilliance, honestly. I'm still a genius."

"I can see you still have your ego," I mutter, sarcastically.

"What would the non indoctrinated me tell you to do, Vakarian?" Shepard inquires, seriously.

"... Trust your instincts."

"I find that hard to believe."

"Yeah, well, your mind has sort of turned into indoctrinated goo," I say, not unpleasantly.

"Point," Shepard jabs back. "Listen. Come over here and liste-"

"Wait..." I stop, and bend on one knee so I can feel the ground's vibrations more fully. The hollow of my body feels a strange pattern of movements, the concrete ground rattling my exoskeleton. It feels like a stampede, a trample of heavy feet and guns picking the ground in one giant roll from the tunnel's exit - where I left my team to fend for themselves, where Major Coats had ordered us to escape. My cheek plates tense, jaw drops, brow arches widen, and I spin to jab one finger towards Shepard. "_Dammit._ You were distracting me! This is an ambush!"

"Shii-... God _dammit._ Well, Fucking A, Garrus!" Shepard yelled at me. "What the hell are you expecting? I'm NOT in control of myself! Get a fucking grip!"

That sounds more like the Shepard I know.

Rolling my eyes once more to feel a bit of relief despite the impending doom, I slam my head into her skull again, leaving another unsightly mark across her forehead. Shepard groans and slumps back into a bag of unconsciousness. If I'm going to save the galaxy, then I'm going to have to act fast. Cheek plates flinching, I throw the commander over my shoulder and proceed to dart northwards, after the tunnels curve in a heated approach towards the beacon's source. All the while, I could hear the pitterpattering of husks and cannibals closing the distance.

This was a mad dash.

Quickly, I assess my site. I can hear soft shouting above, muffled by the guttural screams of mutated batarian and human flesh scampering behind. A cloud of dust chokes the area, and my flashlight proves not only to be a terrible source of light, but also blinds me. Light is just reflecting dust. I can't see anything here. Something is adding pressure to the tunnel, hence the thick cloud of dirt masking the air and visibility. Dust doesn't bother me. I do not have lungs the way other species do, so dust is actually a-okay on my book. The lack of visibility? Not so a-okay. Although, it's still easy to discern life forms through my visor, leaving my right eye blind.

"Spirits Christ..." I mutter, glancing back over my shoulder. The reapers sent a whole army to chase after us. I'm not about to take numbers, but I do see a few brutes and even a several mutated examples of new reaper shock troops. They looked hanar, long tendrils sliding across the ceiling as they snapped quickly from point to point, with some sort of humanoid alien attached to their back - gaping maws... it may have been a sick combination of hanar and drell.

I have little time to think. Quickly, I regard the weak structures around the tunnel. Fighting them face to face guaranteed a seal of death, and there are no vantage points for a sniper such as myself. My only hope is to use my environment as a weapon. Quickly, I detach my collection of proximity mines from my utility case and pitch them towards three beam structures that border the enemy. The mines attach themselves against the three concrete pillars.

"I really hope this works..." I mutter, picking up my rifle and supporting it against my shoulder after throwing Shepard on the ground.

To be honest, I really enjoyed throwing Shepard on the ground. I have to look back, just to see how hard I threw her. Her arm has turned into an awkward angle. Its likely broken. And honestly, considering what I'm going through now, I'm absolutely satisfied with the break. She might as well feel a little pain for what I'm dealing with. I don't feel sorry for her. Not at all. If roles reversed, she would have killed me a while back.

But I am not her, and she is not me. So a broken arm is plenty fine in my book.

"Alright, you barefaced bastards..." I growl, watching the army bury themselves forward. I take a pot shot every once in a while to keep the reapers on their toes, and as practice for the future grand finale. My eye drifts up, regarding the odd hanar-drell hybrids as they jump from place to place, leading the battalion towards me. They may escape the blast, and I may have to deal with them sooner than not.

As the army treads closer, those damn hanar-drell creatures come closer as well. Forty feet. Thirty feet. Back to forty feet. Their movements are erratic, tentacles twisting and snapping. The blackened corpses of the drell hiss before sinking into the jelly shell of the hanar's body. Is the drell the weakness? How the hell am I going to fight this damn thing? Its too close! The whole situation sets me on edge, eyes darting between the mutated lurkers and the army treading forward. The cannibals have started to use their weapons, bullets blazing and hitting various directions. Shitty shots, but it just takes one shitty shot to throw this whole plan off kilter.

The Drell-Hanar Mutant Weapon Nasty Shit Thing that I shall now call Vakarian's Worst Nightmare drops from the ceiling and attempts to tangle all eight tentacles around my figure, with the drell's claws jutting out to slice off my face plates. I neatly dodge the corrupted form, and slice the air with my omni-tool, effectively searing off one of the blackened appendages.

Which does little, as it reforms almost automatically.

"They learned _regeneration_?!"

Vakarian's Worst Nightmare opens its blackened, drell maw and hisses.

I neatly, and gracefully, bury a proximity mine down its throat, grab a series of tentacles and sling the rotting mutant corpse into another blackened, bulbous ceiling lurker. The tangle of limbs is almost comical before the creatures explode, leaving a smear of jelly and bits and pieces of what I can only assume are drell parts.

They don't reform after that.

Though, the army continues its tread forward, and more of Vakarian's Worst Nightmares continue to snap from ceiling to ceiling in a blinding, blackened, blurr. Quickly, I pitch backwards and hit the trigger of my rifle at just the right time, setting off the first proximity mine. A chain reaction splits the supporting structures. Quickly, I grab Shepard and haul backwards into the tunnel's cavity, as the structure explodes around us. I chose a very hard gamble, hoping that the tunnel's structure would fall on top the army as opposed to us. It was the only chance I had, since not taking the chance would guarantee a slow, painful, uncomfortable death.

However, I did not expect what would happen next.

The first thing my senses digest is the rattling sound of its prosthetics searing my ears and vibrating my plates. A massive, black, metallic leg topples from the sky down on top the assortment drell-jellies, cannibals, husks, brutes, and god knows what else. I stare, dumbfounded as a Reaper falls into the newly formed crater, its massive body unable to balance itself as it trips backwards, crushing the ground and causing further damage as it screams. I lose balance myself, rolling off Shepard as I cling onto loose gravel, kicking the dirt and feeling my stomachs turn in an uneasy lurch as the ground continues to shake from a combined collapsing tunnel and collapsing Reaper.

Spirits Christ. There was a Reaper _above_ us.

There was a Reaper _above _us and I just dropped it. I just dropped it by myself.

"My name is Garrus Vakarian. And I too can topple Reapers." I laugh out loud.

I'll have to tell Shepard that when she wakes up from this nightmare. She'll be so pissed that she's not the only one who can do it on her own.

But where the hell did that Reaper come from? There was only one Reaper within a mile radius, unless...

"Spirits... Wait... That wasn't... "

Blinking, I snatch Shepard and perch her once more across my shoulder as I dash backwards, sprinting and dodging the massive legs of the brutal, black, nasty, death bearing machine. One giant optic peers at me, and for a moment, I like to think I see fear. Though its unlikely I see anything, however imagining I see fear is pretty satisfying. I peer around this crippled giant, and peer up to regard the soft, blue haze of a beam that slices the sky. The beacon. A one way ticket to the Citadel.

Holy mother of Spirits. There it is.

Vakarian is close to saving the Galaxy.

My stomachs seize and my hearts throb, chestplate hurts from the deep vibrations and ears pound as the Reaper protests at such a close proximity. I know a pissed off Reaper when I hear it. It's not a pleasant sound. Unfortunately, the only way up towards that beam is by climbing the giant.

So I don't have to think twice to begin my ascent.

Running and running, sliding and almost losing balance as the massive creature tries to shake itself in a slow turn, moving its legs, and attempting to encapsulate me with its giant, optical eye that will surely spell death. I can only climb with one arm and two legs, the other still hoisting Shepard across my shoulder. At some point, this becomes a burden, and I have to quickly untie her hands and rebind them, so that she's fixed behind my back like some 400 lb cape, arms entangled around my neck and strung together with that bit of gauze. I proceed to continue the climb, thanking my ancestors that we've evolved to climb and live among giant rock fixtures, and that evolution is a slow process that hasn't softened us in our spaceflight years.

I discard my gloves by tearing them off with my teeth, dislodging the boots off my feet, revealing the thick, sharp talons.

Maybe turians have actually evolved to climb Reapers. It would explain why I find it relatively easy to dig my hard fingers into the metallic surface, denting and pushing it, creating platforms where none existed. Maybe nature designed turians to one day fight these bastards. Nature's a weird beast, you never know how he works.

The Reaper struggles harder when it feels I am close, shaking and attempting to dislodge me. The black carapace oozes oily bile, a reminder of its biomechanical construction. Holding on is easy, and I can only laugh at its pathetic attempts to throw me off. I find some joy in this near death experience, leaping from place to place across the creature's black shell. I'm tempted to write my name across its body. I maybe small. I maybe a little organic on the face of a giant, omnipresent beast, but I feel utterly powerful. Despite how it may shake and scream and below, it is powerless under its buckled legs. Finally, I find ground level, and I take one good look at the crippled Earth. The dead bodies. The husks. The undead hordes that rush from outside, trying to protect the beacon in one vain attempt. Another reaper descends, as it falls from the sky.

I look at all of this. I smile in a human way, which require I lift my cheek plates and reveal a line of teeth. And I salute, before falling backwards into the Citadel's beam, feeling the soft blue wash over my form, taking Shepard and I to our destination.

Vakarian and Shepard. Turian and human. One way or another, it'll end with us side by side.

* * *

**Author's Note ::**

Shamelessly listened to Kate Bush's Running up that Hill (A Deal with God) 2012 remix. over and over again.


	5. Dea Ex Machina

**THE FINAL PROBLEM**

**Chapter Five: Dea Ex Machina**

* * *

**Shepard**

I would like to say that over the years, I've forgotten many past transgressions that have made me who I am now.

I would like to say that I've mentally blocked out much of the abuse, pain, difficulties, and torments that have broken and reformed me.

I would like to say that, but that would be a lie.

I remember everything. Though I've mixed up the timetables and I don't quite recall which memories are mine and which are actually an amalgamation of Reaper untruths. The problem with indoctrination is you begin to lose a sense of identification. You are no longer an 'I' but a 'We', which is to say, a collective mind. But my mind is only capable of so much information, so whatever has been dumped into it, is purely human and only relatable memories.

I know I am not a colonist, so there are no spacefaring dreams in my head.

I also know that I was not born wealthy, so it is easy for me to weed out those experiences as well.

I have no memory of my parents, and I don't know if I'm originally from China or Vancouver or the Balkans or Egypt or America... I do remember living in a slave ring, though I'm not sure which ring specifically. It may have been child prostitution, or thieving, or even underground pit fights (a popular market in the Western hemisphere). I don't remember if someone taught me to read or if I was self-taught, but I do remember reading. I remember speaking four different languages, because I was popular in my slave ring, and I moved frequently from country to country. Intel was important, I needed to have some understanding of other tongues and I was not worth a language chip until I matured. Or did I live in an international city? I do not remember if I lived in an international city, such as Hong Kong or Los Angeles. Or if I just travelled often between countries.

I do remember the abuse.

Though what form, I cannot say. Sometimes I remember it being sexual. Sometimes I remember just being slapped around. Sometimes I remember emotional torture. Perhaps it was all of them. Perhaps none. It is difficult to separate my memories from the collective right now. I was a slave. I still am a slave. There are many slaves who share my experiences, both past and present.

People are cruel. Humans, turians, asari, hanar, drell, vorcha, all of them. They are all cruel. The problem with self-determination is its often abused. We tear apart, break, and destroy. Violence is a virus. It spreads. One person is hurt, and that pain follows a chain reaction that reaches from the past to the present. We enslave to prevent future harm. We chain up future perpetrators before they can self destruct.

I remember holding my hands out silently as gang members would take turns putting out their cigarettes in my palms. Or was it my legs? Or my chest? I do not know. There are many memories of this caliber. Many people who had cigarettes burned into their bodies. Some of them cried. Some of them fainted. Some lashed out.

What I do know is this is my memory and it involved cigarettes. Years later, I killed each of the perpetrators in their sleep. Or was I recruited by that gang? Or I would later carry one of those bastard's seed in my belly? Did I think my pregnancy would be a ticket out of slavery?

Had I escaped the slave ring then? Yes. I escaped. Only to be re-enslaved by gang after gang... Did I use the pregnancy for better treatment?

No. That wasn't it. Was it? I do not know. What I do know is I did not want to get rid of the baby. I don't know if it was to protect myself or otherwise. The gang was alright by this - no one suspects a pregnant sixteen year old assassin, so it was easier to bypass securities and set up my sniper rifle at the perfect, unsuspecting vantage point. I could have aborted the collection of cells in my belly, but I didn't. First life I ever spared, if you can call a fetus a life. That is a debate that many organics continue to wage.

Maybe I just kept it because, while my body has always been a tool for someone or something, useful to one organization or another... I've never truly owned my body. If it wasn't sold to a slave ring, it belonged to a gang. Or the Alliance. Or Cerberus. Or the Reapers. I've never had true autonomy over my body. But at least I had some ownership over this fetus from once upon a time ago. If I wanted to get rid of it, I could. If I wanted to keep it safe, I could. I had power over a single function, my body's ability to breed.

The Alliance took that away from me. Get rid of the baby, and I get a second chance. I had to give the kid up.

I feel the virus spreading through my mind. Every time I slip back into darkness, my brain begins to stitch together a sequence of events that may or may not be true. I do not know if these are my memories or if they belong to another person. It doesn't really matter at this point, because I am no longer an 'I' but a 'We' and it is pointless to struggle against the tide. It is interesting, because I wonder if the other strangers who are experiencing what I am experiencing are also indoctrinated spies. It is unlikely these memories are the collective genetic historical imprint of others, since my mind is small and incapable of such vast fields of information.

What I do know is that I am aware of my indoctrination, and that awareness is spreading. Every once in a while, a strong-willed subject will turn a gun on himself. It seems my will power is capable of 'curing' the virus in other networks, if you will. This undoubtedly frustrates the Reapers, and I wonder why they haven't killed me. Garrus Vakarian is giving quite the chase. I maybe the only weapon who can put down Garrus before he finally stops them.

How ironic. I... We could actually save the Reapers. I am no longer an I. I am a We. We could actually save the Reapers.

Once... When We were an I, and not a We. Once, when We were a Shepard and not a collective. Once, Shepard tore apart her books and her stories, her biographies and her histories, sifted and sifted and sifted to answer an A.I's question.

EDI once asked Shepard a very complicated question. "Commander, what is love?"

Since we have reached the collective, we have finally determined truths beyond our understanding, certain realities beyond our comprehension. Love is just a biological function that protects the greater whole and creates a defensive strategy against the organic inevitability of death. Organics die. It is what happens. They are inherently flawed. Love is a trick, conceived by the mind so that organics truly believe all this suffering and all this inevitability of death is worth the struggle. Love has also created the concept of hate, another extreme organic response to the future of death. Love and Hate trick organics into believing they are immortal.

Shepard understood this.

"It's a four letter word for weakness," Shepard told EDI.

Shepard is one of few organics who never loved. Through our consensus of her emotions, relationships, and connections with other organics, we know she has never loved. Admiration, adoration, appreciation, acceptance, understanding, and even certain facets of empathy do not contain the same illusory properties as love. She has always accepted death. Death is inevitable. She does not love, she does not hate, she has no attachments. Her primary function was a tool, no more, no less.

And now we have possessed her as a tool.

Rewriting her is easy. Her organic mind is similar to a machine. Her philosophies and beliefs similar. Her processes similar. Her reactions similar. Her determinations similar. Prolonged exposure to Reaper is unnecessary. A large percentage of her material are prosthetics. She is a useful tool.

There is a problem we've encountered, however.

Consensus agrees. We are in imminent danger. We cannot allow the Catalyst to reach the Citadel. We have sent reinforcements to bombard the human Alliance fleet ships. Shepard's inherit knowledge of the Alliance fleet numbers, allied by the combined quarian fleets and defected geth troops, turian fleets, asari fleets, krogan fleets, mercenary fleets... the orchestration of their joint attacks is too great, we are unable to prevent the crucible from docking the Citadel. It is inevitable this will happen. We cannot prevent this.

Running calculations.

We cannot risk sending troops into the Citadel. We cannot cut off the beacon device. Fervently attempting to breach the Citadel's firewalls. Impossible. Sending backup to protect the beam. We must gather more bodies to continue reaching greater consensus.

We will use Shepard to stop Garrus Vakarian before he destroys us all.

We will use Shepard to protect order.

We will use Shepard as a safeguard.

We... who is I... who is We... who is I...

I am the goddess from the machine. I am created by machines. I who is determined by We, given identification to protect We. The way of order.

We move My lips, We see only darkness through My eyes, We feel the slick of blood with My hands, We smell the mixed decay of human flesh and rot of feces with My nose. We taste salt on My lips.

"Garrus?" We say with My voice.

"... Shepard...?" We hear with My ears.

We... who is I... who is We... who is I...

* * *

**Author's Note ::**

This was a fun chapter to write.


	6. The Devil Within

**Inspired. Inspired.**

**THE FINAL PROBLEM**

**Chapter 6: The Devil Within**

* * *

**En masse**

The turian first noticed the stench. The sweet scent of decay overwhelmed his senses. It stung his eyes, and he could taste the hint of rotting carcasses mixed with mechanical lubricant and a grand slush of urine and feces. Oh, and the blood. The copper fume of blood overwhelmed him.

The abrupt exchange from London to Citadel overwhelmed Vakarian's brain. He panted, tongue slack and sunken eyes darting back and forth as his mind patched together the present. His recovery would've been easier if someone threw him into a tub of ice. Mind you, the turian's body still had to make sense of where he was. Only seconds ago, the sound of guns drummed his ears, synthesized by the mechanical roar of trillions dead. His mind and his body did not have time to adjust to the exchange, from life to death or motion to stillness. Garrus untied the four hundred pounds of Shepard and armor from around his neck so he could take a moment to just... rest.

"You owe me big time," he murmured to the unconscious lump.

His body hurt. The thick, metallic carapace that made up 75 percent of Vakarian's body was chucked, knocked about, chipped, shot at, and torn into ever since the End Game started. What Garrus wanted more than anything was a nice, hot sand bath to scrub across the plates on his body. Perhaps a day at the spas would be nice, an early molting would pick up his spirits.

But first, he had to save the galaxy.

Groaning, Vakarian unceremoniously picked himself off the slick ground and seriously examined his new environment. It was like no wing of the Citadel he had ever seen. Eerie, red lights draped the long, branching hallway. Dead humans were neatly organized into rows of three and stacks of eight on either side of him. Garrus looked over his shoulder to consider the disorganized mound of body parts, waiting for arrangement. It was morbid.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

Garrus fell to one leg and raised his rifle, sliding his finger across the trigger once he could see the target. In Vakarian's trigger happy vigor, he failed to realize his weapon required another heatsink, an empty clip greeting his attempt to shoot. Well, at least his unlucky target had time to introduce itself. The turian raised a plated brow as a keeper strolled forward in its slow, never-ending saunter, ignoring its almost-killer. It paused momentarily to regard Shepard's unconscious form before drawling back to start picking through the unorganized pile of flesh behind them. "Yeah just... passing through..." Garrus waved. "Don't mind us. Just going to save the galaxy and all that."

Sighing, the turian holstered the rifle behind his bag and started to pick through the bodies, searching Alliance uniforms. After a bit of work, Garrus finally found what he was looking for: a heavy pistol sidearm. While sniper and assault rifles were his favorite guns ever in the history of everything, they were still two-handed weapons. Garrus did not have two hands to spare. Shepard's unconscious ass still required hauling from point A to point B, leaving only one unoccupied arm. The M-5 Phalanx would have to do, even if his clawed hand felt awkward holding a gun meant for much smaller appendages.

"Blegh," Garrus groaned, bare feet stepping through the froth of blood and other human matter that carpeted the dimly lit hall. Once more hauling Shepard over his shoulder, he started to tread towards what he assumed was the hallway's entrance.

"_Hello? Hello, has anyone made it? Is anyone here?"_

Garrus stopped in his tracks, his scanner's commlink buzzing as the familiar lilt of a certain Asari's voice whistled through his frequency. "Liara!"

_"Garrus? What are you.. how did you get here? Why haven't you escaped?_

"Does that really matter right now, Liara?" Vakarian inquired, nonplussed.

_... Where's Shepard?"_

"With me," Garrus answered, a pleasant hum winking through his voice, "Oh spirits, am I glad to hear a friendly voice."

_"Did she wake up?"_

"Uh..." Vakarian pause for a moment. "... In a matter of speaking, yes she did."

_"Is she alright?"_

_"... _In a matter of speaking, yes she is... Liara, are you alright?"

"_Yes... yes I am. I... Oh thank goddess. Are you alright?"_

_"_In a matter of speaking..." Garrus half groaned. How the hell was he going to explain himself? Vakarian stepped across the dim hallway as he approached the exit. "Did anyone else make it to the beam?"

_"Yes. Major Coats. He and I managed to rendezvous together, our team didn't make it... We almost didn't make it. We were waiting for an opening to rush the beam when the tunnel collapsed, pulling the Reaper down with it."_

"Yeah... That was me." Vakarian grinned in that ever satisfying human way, jaw plates stretched and showing off the line of teeth in his mouth. It was better than standing and just shifting his weight backwards. Faster too. "Not a bad shot, huh?"

_"I will never hear the end of that victory, will I?"_

"Nope." Garrus grunted, hoisting up Shepard's body and adjusting her weight across his shoulder. The other hand raised, pushing back a gaggle of tubes dangling from the ceiling. He trod slowly, gun still pointed forward, occasionally peeking back over his shoulder for when something less friendly than a dead body happened to pop up from the teleportation hub that spat him out earlier. "Does this hall ever end?"

_"I... Coats and I see something... I think we've reached something here..."  
_

Vakarian swallows, an unconscious movement that is more habitual and less... well... useful, considering turians produce no saliva to swallow. He thinks nothing of it, and continues his careful tread, approaching what he only assumed was a closed, mechanical door. "What do you see?"

_"A chasm of some sort... The hall lead us out out to... what is this place? I don't... Vakarian. I have blueprints of the Citadel. I've outlined the entire interior and exterior of this ship. This is... not suppose to be here."_

"This is Reaper tech we are talking about," Garrus replied. "What do you see?"

_"Shifting... walls moving... dear Goddess, do you think that the Citadel's interior has been completely altered? Renovated to meet their needs...?"_

"Wouldn't be surprised. This all reminds me of the collector ship... smells about the same, too. They really are wonderful interior decorators," the turian gingerly steps forward. The door reacted by separating, flat halves mechanically sliding back into their compartments and revealing a long pathway leading from Garrus to a hub tower a good pace away. Carefully, he moves forward, head snapping left and right, sunken eyes studying the strange environment and new readings passing across the faint blue surface of his scanner. "Spirits christ..."

_"Spirits christ..? Wait. Isn't Christ a human curse word?"_

"We are walking around in an unknown chasm, towards an unknown goal, to defeat an unknown enemy with an unknown weapon and you are questioning my use of language?"

_"Touche."_

Rolling his eyes, Vakarian continued his slow tread forward, his scanner's readings briefly spiking when a long bolt of electricity bounced off several platforms. He watched as the platforms moved by their own will and frequently piled into each other, creating more ramps and rooms that spread through the vast space.

_"We... We see something... I think it's a control pane-.. Oh dear goddess."_

"What? What do you see?" Garrus demanded, pushing forward. He could almost hear Liara's voice outside of his earpiece, but the plates that decorated his carapace itched from the electrical charges around him, and left his stomachs feeling knotted.

_"Its... The Illusive Man. He's... Dead. Heavily modified... Dear goddess, he looks like Saren."_

"Don't take any risks, throw his body into the chasm," Garrus shook his head. "You remember how the Reapers were able to reanimate Saren's corpse. We don't need to take any more risks than we already have." _especially since we still have to deal with Shepard_. That part, he conveniently left out.

What did he plan to achieve by hauling Foucault's unconscious, indoctrinated body into the very heart of the galaxy's last hope to save itself? Vakarian felt naïve and stupid, some part of him felt like he could actually save her. Maybe he could cut off the infection before it spread further. Perhaps by being present, Garrus might be able to bring his Shepard back from the ocean of death and untruths constructed by the Reapers. Maybe this crucible weapon could cure her. What else was Vakarian going to do? Leave her back there at the mercy of husks, brutes, banshees, and those drell-hanar mutants? With the cannibals? The Reapers? They would tear her body apart. Maybe, there was a chance of cloning her tissue. Reconstructing her mind. Miranda Lawson was able to do it once before, whose to say she couldn't do it again?

Garrus hissed through his teeth, an expression of hopelessness and frustration. It didn't matter. He had to try. Shepard knows something he doesn't. She has the last clue. The real Shepard, his Shepard, would want him to lug around her unconscious, indoctrinated body to this point. He knows she would have. The woman was clever. It didn't matter if the Reapers controlled her. She always had something, always knew something, always found a loophole, always realized something... had an edge... something...

It's why the Reapers were so scared of her.

She solved the final problem.

Vakarian's scanner flashed briefly, and he watched as Liara and Major Coats emerge from the room up ahead. They both carried a limp, human body between them. Both individuals acknowledged Garrus before sliding down to meet the turian halfway. _Dead, indoctrinated Illusive Man meet unconscious, indoctrinated Shepard_, Garrus mused to himself._ And now say goodbye._

Vakarian raised the M-5 Phalanx and fired point-blank at the man's head, peeling back his skull and revealing a strange network of brain tissue and blue wire circuitry. He continued to shoot until the heatsink burst. Liara blinked and Major Coats only shrugged before unceremoniously throwing the Illusive Man's body into the chasm, watching him disappear into the mysteries of the Citadel.

Major Coats spun on his heel and dashed back towards their entrance, "Come on, we need to figure out how to open the Citadel's arms befor-"

"Garrus?"

The world froze. Time stood still. Garrus could feel his stomachs knot and his hearts turn to hard lumps of ice as the name dropped near his ear. His cheek plates tensed and his body felt heavy. Major Coats and Liara stared, wide-eyed and unmoving.

"Shepard?" The turian stated hesitantly. He had forgotten to tie her hands... How could he forget to tie her hands-?!

He didn't have time to react. Garrus could feel two feet plant into his chest, kicking the full weight of Shepard's body backwards into a flip and throwing the turian into the ground. Vakarian rolled off his side and raised the M-5, bullets pelting the archway as Shepard spiraled across the pathway, knocking Liara into the ground with both knees smashing the asari's hands backwards. The turian could hear Liara's wrists snap backwards as the Commander broke her hands. He watched as Major Coats pulled out his gun, aiming for Shepard's head. The commander's hand clawed around the asari's neck and roughly pulled her up, nails digging into blue flesh and sharp eyes pitching between Major Coats and Garrus, daring either of them to make a move. Coats did not lower his gun.

"Major, lower your weapon," Garrus demanded, as Shepard calmly tightened her grip around Liara's throat. "Major."

"What is going on, Officer Vakarian!? Commander Shepard, stand down!" Major Coats yelled, the laser point of his hand cannon fixed between Shepard's eyes. "Shit... Her eyes..."

"Coats, drop your weapon!" Garrus repeated his order, "Or I will shoot."

"Please..." Liara gasped, clawing Shepard's hands. "Please..."

Shepard said nothing. She only glared. No hatred, no anger, no pain, no frustrated... just an empty, dead stare. No... No she could still be saved...

Major Coats hesitated, glancing between Garrus and Shepard. Slowly, his features melted into a sudden dive of understanding, emotions surfacing across his face that revealed a myriad of human expressions. And Vakarian could read them all. Confusion. Sadness. Reluctance. Uncertainty. He watched the process of elimination as Coats slowly lowered his gun, watched the Major's lips shift, brows lift, eyes move, the wrinkles between them, all of these language cues he had learned through Shepard expressed perfectly across the man's face.

And then he saw it. That skip before the fire. He saw it, and he knew.

Trust your instincts, Shepard told him. Always trust your instincts. I don't always know it all. Sometimes you see shit that I don't. And that's important. I value that. Follow through and whatever the fuck you do, don't hesitate. Just trust yourself. If you don't, you're dead.

Garrus was called a great many things over the course of his little life. While his Father often called him a 'Wasted Opportunity' in as many words as a reluctant parent could, his mother was always impressed by her son's uncanny ability to discover details that often escaped her attention. He liked those tiny little details, those little pieces of information. Its why he enjoyed his career as a sniper and was an excellent candidate for Spectre status. Garrus was, for lack of better words, a detective. He never paid attention to the big picture. The big picture often obscured the real problem, the tiny problem, the thread that unravelled the blanket's secrets. He relished it. Maybe that's why he loved Shepard so much. Maybe he was so bent understanding the mystery of who she was, he had become trapped by her thrall.

He could see the seams, the connections, the threads that bound the present into the future. He knew when to seize an opportunity.

The turian's perception of time slowed as the deep rhythm of his double heart beats pounded across his ears. Major Coats turned on his heel and dashed backwards into the control panel. Shepard threw Liara aside and followed his mad dash. Garrus took an even breath between his heart beats and raised his gun.

Pop pop.

Shepard fell, buckling under her legs as her shields absorbed the bullets. She moved her body around to recouperate, but at that point, Garrus was already head rushing her, slamming his body into hers. Anticipating his move, the commander rolled on her shoulders, both feet planting against Garrus's chest and attempting to throw him bodily over the platform and into the chasm. Vakarian swung his arms around, keeping balance by pushing his bare feet into the ground, metallic talons pushing into the pathway's surface and dragging Shepard backwards, both arms sliding around her struggling body.

"Those arms open yet?!" Garrus shouted, arms bracing the Commander into a headlock.

"Yes! Yes the arms are opening! They are opening!"

"No!" Shepard screamed, her voice twisted and dry, curdling and rattling Vakarian's armor and carapace. He could feel her in his teeth, in his plates, her screams twisting his stomachs. Her elbow smashed backwards, hitting the center of torso. He grimaced and kept holding, her augmented strength bending his armor and bruising the plates that crisscrossed his torso.

"Is that thing docked ye-"

The commander whipped her head backwards, skull snapping against the turian's face. He could feel his face crack, the hard exoskeleton surface dent into itself. He fell backwards as Shepard rushed towards the control room, moving unpredictably and dodging the turian's fire as he hit the Phalanx's trigger again and again and again, "Dammit!"

"Fuck!" Major Coats cursed, numerous expletives garbling his translator chip.

With little time to spare, Garrus jumped back to his feet and rushed after the commander's trail. He bodily picked up Liara who cried out when the weight of her hands shifted, confirming his suspicions that Shepard had indeed broken the asari's wrists to dampen her manipulation of biotics. He could hear pistol fire from the control room.

Dropping Liara to her feet, the turian rushed forward, mind foggy and body weakened by the decent knock around. He could hear a pistol fire, another expletive, and then... silence...

"No... no no no no," Garrus cried, claws digging into the ramp as he climbed upwards. What has he done? Did he just destroy the galaxy? What was he thinking, dragging an indoctrinated human super soldier into the belly of the beast? He should have followed his oath. He should have listened to her. The reapers must have manipulated him. He ruined it. He screwed it up. Its over. All hope was over. Its done for. And now he had to kill his own friend, with his own hands, if he was even able to get his hands around her. They were so close, so close to the finish line. So close. If only, if only, if only, if onl-

Vakarian stopped, fixed at the control room's door frame. His eyes swept the room, matching the circular area and the panel's central position. They briefly grazed space outside, a portion of Earth and ships colliding into Reapers sinking into view. Though, that is not what causes Garrus pause.

Shepard stood near the panel, Major Coats kneeling at her feet. Both hands brace around his head, one hand pressed over his eyes and the other gripping the Major's nape, poised to break his neck. Except... she doesn't move. She's motionless, still. Brown wisps of hair frame over her face, obscuring her eyes and the pale flesh of her skin, cobalt blue facial tattoos peeking underneath the threads across her cheeks. Her coloration has also changed. The commander is no longer that sickening, ultraviolet pool of reds, blues, blacks, and greys hinting at reaper infestation. Instead, there is a soft, translucent glow that braces her figure.

_"Major Coats. Major Coats. The Crucible has docked. Can you find out if there's anything at your end that can get her started?" _Hackett over the commlink.

Major Coats only whimpered, not moving a damn muscle, for fear of certain necks snapping.

"What is... What is she doing...?" Liara inquires.

"Why have you come?" Shepard states, her voice a biting monotone that expressed pure apathy.

Garrus braced himself, uncertain. "Shepard...?"

"No," the commander removed her hands from Major Coats, stepping backwards and regarding the company with a disconnect reserved only for robots and A.I.

"I am the Catalyst."

* * *

**Author's Note ::**  
Some music for you to google.

Ch. 1 - Breathe by Alexi Murdoch  
Ch. 2 - Every Single Night by Fiona Apple  
Ch. 3 - Holocene by Bon Iver  
Ch. 4 - Running up that Hill (Deal with God '12 remix) by Kate Bush  
Ch. 5 - Seven Devils by Florence + The Machine  
Ch. 6 - Jetstream by The Doves  
Ch. 7 - Finale by Ramin Djawadi  
Epilogue - Shepard of the Galaxy by Big Giant Circles

Oh man guys. I just can't wait until I finish that last chapter. Can't wait. I am very excited to see your reactions. Sure, I enjoy writing. But I get more of a kick seeing all of your reactions. Reviews are fun to read. So fun.

So excited.

One more chapter and an epilogue to go. Only one. I'll still have Patchwork Girl to finish. That needs to come last though. I have my reasons.

God I just... can't wa~~~~ait.

Also, the sentence _'synthesized by the mechanical roar of trillions dead.'_ is inspired by Sinvraal's wonderful fic she's currently penning. In chapter two, she describes a reaper's bellow as the sound of trillions trillions dead. Wonderful description. You can tell it really stuck with me.


	7. A Deal with God

**:)**

**THE FINAL PROBLEM**

**Chapter 7: A Deal with God**

_O living always, always dying!  
O the burials of me past and present.  
O me while I stride ahead, material, visible, imperious as ever;  
O me while I was for years, no dead, I lament not, I am content;  
O to disengage myself from those corpses of me, which I turn and look at where I cast them,  
To pass on, O living! always living! and leave the corpses behind._

_- Walt Whitman_

* * *

**En masse**

Time stretched. A few minutes felt like hours. A platform lifted three hesitant bodies and their strange consort to a mysterious haven above the control room. Major Coats spent his time trying to re-establish a signal with Admiral Hackett. After the turn of events, his communicator had scrambled, interfered by the Catalyst's presence. Liara had little to say, her eyes drifting confused between Shepard-who-was-not-Shepard and Garrus who looked worse for wear. Vakarian tried to reason with non-Shepard, but he would've had better luck convincing the Citadel's 'Avina' that there were fish in the presidium.

"Shepard. Please."

"There are many who once identified as Shepard. But I am not Shepard. I am the Catalyst"

Vakarian stiffened. "You are using her body. She's right _here._"

"You are confusing the mind with the body. They are not the same," the Catalyst corrected apathetically.

A cool brew chilled the air. Elation mixed with dread left the odd company feeling disconnected and estranged. The crucible had docked. The finish line was near. But at what cost? What would happen now? Where was this stranger leading them? Could she be trusted? And what _of_ Shepard?

"God_dammit._ I can't get to Admiral Hackett," Major Coats growled, throwing his arms in the air. "I can't reach _anyone._ I don't know what's going on out there."

"Look..." Liara hushed, placing a steady hand over the major's arm, interrupting him.

The platform perched inside a new room, the flat, smooth surfaces built-in a large circular arena. The room was empty, braced by thick paned glass displaying the greater aerial war between machines and spacecraft outside. Stars speckled between reapers and warships, crashing and struggling, collapsing and falling in the ocean of space. Liara moved first, soft, curious eyes drifting across the familiar room and regarding the massive columns of energy exchange that decked the floor several hundreds of feet before them. Three powerful waterfalls of light and electricity, one blue, one red, centered by a column of pure white. She looked up, regarding the giant mechanical wonder that domed the room. The crucible.

"Did this... wasn't this the Presidium tower...?"

"Correct and incorrect," the Catalyst answered in her hollow, detached tone. She stepped out to meet Liara, matching her stance and staring out into the sea of stars. "What you called the Presidium Tower was a portal for energy exchange. I designed it."

"Why?" Liara asked, looking at the Catalyst fully. She had Shepard's face. Shepard's voice. Shepard's body. Shepard's eyes. Shepard's tattoos. She even smelled like Shepard, but her disposition was so detached and far removed... little doubt crossed Liara's mind. This was not Shepard. Not _her_ Shepard. "Why would you design this?"

"As a fail safe," the Catalyst stated. "If my solution did not work."

"What solution?" Garrus interrupted, treading around them. He shuddered from tire and agitation. A long crack dented his face, the consequences of tangling with a possessed-and-pissed-off former commander.

The catalyst turned, arms fixed to her sides and head angled to regard Vakarian. Her brows knit in an oddly curious way, lips pursed and eyes narrowed. She was mimicking some field of expressions, sharing physical language cues on par with an A.I. "The Reapers. They are my solution to chaos."

Grey, unfamiliar eyes studied the turian for a moment before briefly regarding Liara and Major Coats. She was reading their body language, and each one formed a quizzical, open, question mark. Without waiting for permission to explain, the Catalyst turned around, back facing her company. She walked in a casual gait, adjusting to the weight of her figure, practicing movements inside her living shell. "The Reapers are designed to collect organic species into tangible memory. The sentient desire to live is powerful, be that sentient artificial or natural. In order to concede these desires, I designed the Reapers to protect both synthetic and organic life from destroying one another. I brought order to chaos."

"At the price of individual freedom," Vakarian interrupted, jaw plates snapping with a hiss.

The woman turned. She greeted his passionate retort with a dead expression. "There are countless ingredients that make up the body and mind, like all the components that make up you as an individual. You may have a face and voice to distinguish yourself from others, but your thoughts and memories are unique only to you, and you carry a sense of your own destiny. Each of those things are just a small part of it. You collect information to use in your own way. All of that blends to create a mixture that forms you and gives rise to your conscience. You feel confined, only free to expand yourself within boundaries. You are not free, Garrus Vakarian. You, like all life, synthetic or organic, are bound by laws, by rules, by order."

"That's not true," Liara whispered. Her gloves removed, hands and wrists dipped into thick layer of medigel that caused them to glisten under the jelly fabric as her bones and muscle tissue stitched together after 'Shepard's' previous assault. "Chaos is a right to freedom."

"Chaos will kill us all."

"But it _is_ a right. Self determination is _our_ right."

"Your _right_ to self determine requires the subjugation of other rights. There is no right. Your concept of freedom is false. Only order." the Catalyst followed.

"Listen just..." Major Coats sighed, interrupting the awkward gaggle of war celebrities who were arguing over existential philosophies while his home world was burning just outside the window. "Alright, 'Catalyst'. How do we stop _your solution_ from destroying my planet?"

The Catalyst blinked, grey eyes drifting across the active details of the Presidium Tower's view, dancing between massive, biomechanical monsters as they tore apart the hauls of ships in a war of principles. Her eyes darted back and forth before turning, regarding Major Coats over her shoulder with an expression that was neither sympathetic or entirely cold. "The crucible has presented several options that may resolve the final problem. Your presence and the crucible's existence is proof that my solution is no longer adequate. It requires... finessing. My programming limits me. You must decide."

Liara pursed her lips, deep blue eyes drifted across her company, regarding the human and the turian individually. Major Coats appeared skeptical, weight pushed onto his other hip and arms crossed under his chest as his jaw stiffened. Garrus, however, looked wounded. His head drew down, sunken eyes fixed on the pale tiles, body slouched and mandibles tight against his face plates. Liara's brows knit, extending a comforting hand. Vakarian regarded it only for a moment before pulling away, shaking his head.

"The crucible is an energy source and a relay. You can control the Reapers, but whoever chooses to will not survive," the Catalyst continued. "There is also synthesis, a true integration between synthetics and organics. My solution should have perfected this concept, but it has failed. One of you will integrate your DNA into the Citadel's program, altering the organic and synthetic code throughout this galaxy. You can make this concept a reality."

"Synthesis... Is that even..." Liara started, fingers to her lips.

The Catalyst nodded, "Yes. It is. You may also choose to eliminate us. By destroying the citadel, you will effectively erase the Reaper collective intelligence and therefore... I will die. As will my solution."

"I vote we blow these mother fuckers sky-high," Major Coats growls, raising his hand as if the party required a democratic vote before moving forward.

"What about self-determination," Garrus interrupted. "What one of these three options gives you the ability to self determine?"

Liara stared at the turian, blinking. "Garrus, what are you talking abo-"

"We cannot self-determine. We are synthetic. There is no freedom. Only order. You must decide," The Catalyst replied easily.

The turian shook his head, "No. No I refuse to believe that."

"Your belief isn't mandatory," The Catalyst responded in that cool, chilling precision. "Your decision is."

"And what if we decide to do nothing?"

"Then the cycle will continue."

Silence engulfed the room, three individuals exchanging a myriad of expressions and emotions that created a tapestry of decisions and ideas that only confused circumstances further. And there, the Catalyst wearing the skin of a Commander Jane 'Foucault' Shepard stood between all three, arms loosely pressed to her side and gaze fixed on the last conversation. Namely, Garrus Vakarian. Grey hollow eyes stayed on him, pink lips relaxed, a ghost dressed in the skins of his partner. Blue, sunken eyes drifted from leg to body, mandibles fluttering as he unconsciously spoke to her in their secret language of turian-human physical expression. Her lack of mimickry and cold stillness crippled his hearts.

"So... we destroy them then?" Major Coats interrupted, his arm still raised as he evaluated his company.

Vakarian stepped forward, interrupting their perfect circle to brace his bare, taloned hands on either side of the Catalyst's face. She didn't flinch, remaining in place and gazing hollow circles into his eyes, emotionless as a dead china doll. "You tried to tell me something back there. You tried to say something. There was a clue, a hint, something. You knew this would happen. You knew this would happen once we got to this point, and you knew it wasn't right, and you knew there was another possibility. What was it, Shepard? What was it? What were you trying to tell me? What did you say?"

"Garrus..." Liara hushed, extending her hand to comfort him again. Garrus did not dislodge it, but he remained adamant.

"During her indoctrination, she was trying to tell me something. She woke up for a moment, for a second... And she tried to warn me," Vakarian's hands remained braced across Shepard's face, searching the grey, flat eyes. "What did she say... She said something... She knew something..."

"Garrus... She was indoctrinated..." Liara whispered.

"I know that," Vakarian snapped. He pulled away from the asari and roughly seized the Catalyst by the shoulders, metallic claws digging into shoulder plates and pushing her backwards until he could press her into the window that separated the Presidium Tower from space outside. "You _knew_ this would happen. You _knew_ it. And you _understood it. _What did you tell me? What did you say?"

"We have to decide, Officer Vakarian. My world is burning outside," Major Coats demanded, impatience straining his voice to higher pitches.

He could feel the pressure of Liara's hands once more bracing his back, her voice whispering gently as she tried to numb his anger and confusion with calm, therapeutic words. Major Coats continued to shout, his bellows disappearing just at the edge. Vakarian remained fixated on the Catalyst, studying her features from their close proximity. The wide-set jaw, the pale contours of her human flesh, the fresh, geometrical lines of cobalt blue turian tattoos that once moved and enhanced facial expressions reserved only for their special twinspeak. Grey eyes that no longer flash but are dull, red pinpoints of cybernetics barely peeking underneath dilated pupils.

"You said something to me," Garrus continued. "You told me something back there. You never say _anything_ for the sake of saying it. For as long as I've known you, you don't share unless it's important. What did you say!?"

The Catalyst said nothing.

"A word. A virus... you said something about a word... about understanding the meaning... You said something about redefining the meaning of a word. An idea. What were you saying, Shepard, please, tell me what you were saying..."

She looked like a discarded puppet. She had no free will.

"... Free will..."

He panted, mandibles stretched and brows raised, weight pushing back as his gaze turned from Shepard to the ground under them, those smooth, disinfected white tiles that reflected the world above like a opulant mirror soaked in milk.

"Catalyst," Vakarian's voice strained. "What is free will?"

"A lie."

"What is freedom?"

"A lie."

"What is alive?"

"Order."

"What is chaos?"

"End."

"What is slavery?"

"Order."

"What is self-determination?"

"Chaos."

"What is love?"

"A lie."

Garrus stepped backwards, releasing the Catalyst, sunken blue eyes twitching back and forth as the mystery unravelled itself.

"Garrus..." Liara whispers. "Garrus, I don't understa-"

"What would happen if I chose to control you... but did not control you...?" Garrus asked, hesitantly.

"Garrus..." Liara repeated.

"I..." The Catalyst paused. Her brows knit. Her jaw set. Her lips pressed. She looked quizzically between the turian and the asari, before returning to the question. "I... I do not know..."

Sighing, the turian closed his eyes. He paused to breathe, enjoying the oxygen as it flowed through his body, the vapor exchange clearing his mind of thought, clutter, and excitement. Slowly, the turian raised his hands the back of his head, disconnecting the magnet that clipped his targeting visor. A hiss whistled through his chest as he delicately collected the Catalyst's hands and placed his scanner between them, cupping them as he searched her for any reminder of his friend, "Take care of this. I won't need it anymore."

The Catalyst said nothing. Nor did she let go of his visor.

Liara stared, confused. "I don't understand..."

The turian only shrugged, somewhat defeated, somewhat elated. "How do you solve a problem that seems impossible, Liara?"

"I don't know..." Liara answered, concerned.

"By rewriting it."

He started to travel towards the left platform, moving with a gait to his step before it turned into a full run.

The only way to solve the final problem is by rewriting it completely. You can't solve a problem that is wrong. You can only change it. Change the programming. Alter the definitions. The meanings.

Freedom.

Liara understood.

"Garrus, you don't have to do this!" Liara shouts, sprinting after Vakarian as he raced towards the control platform, icy blue energy spilling from the crucible into the citadel like a waterfall.

"I do have to do this," Garrus shook his head as he found himself at the precipice of change, lifting his head to regard the column of energy. He spared one last look back, sharp blue eyes following the pathway that arched back. His gaze regarded Liara first, plates relaxed and features subdued as the woman's sprint turned into an uncertain jog, then stopped, her hands clutching her heart as a pained expression arrested her face. He acknowledged her sadness with a simple nod before regarding Major Coats. The human's eyes narrowed and he stiffly drew his legs together, one arm seized into a salute, accepting Vakarian's decision with a professional goodbye. And then... Shepard.

The woman stood there, the woman who was not _his_ Shepard but the Catalyst's Shepard. A shell of her former self, enslaved and controlled by the circumstances around her. She stood there, regarding Vakarian placidly, hands gingerly cupping his visor. His mandibles fluttered, mind dissolving into a pattern of memories. The way Shepard would glare when he mused, or knock him back when he pushed too hard. How she'd ignore him. Or pretend to ignore him, until she finally had to admit that despite the coldness, the callousness, the shield, the defenses, she really kind of, sort of, a bit, but not really, needed him in only as few words as designated. Shepard who kept everyone at arms distance, Shepard who was never truly free, Shepard who always belonged to someone or something. Be it slave rings, gangs, Cerberus, Alliance, Reapers, or anyone or anything else.

Shepard who really believed love was a four letter word for weakness, because it was too late to change her mind and it was the only way she knew how to survive.

Garrus looked back at the former shadow of Shepard and smiled the human way she unintentionally taught him, cheekplates revealing a line of teeth before he placed both hands onto the blue washed control panels and felt his body tear up from the very basic, molecular level. The energy seared through him, breaking him, pulling at him. He felt fire and cold, could see the light at the end intermixed with darkness. And in his mind, he kept repeating to himself a mantra, a mantra that defined his existence and would redefine others' existence.

What is free will? The power of choice.

What is freedom? The right to act. Without hindrance or restraint.

What is alive? The want to continue existing.

What is chaos? The framework of freedom and alive.

What is love?

Love is not a four letter word for weakness.

Love is not a lie.

Love is freedom from suffering.

"... I did it..."

The voice, the rasped tilt, the familiar voice that demanded and ground, attacked and deflected, disconnected and ignored. That familiar voice warmed the emptiness of the cold, sterile space, bending the air into a symphony of fleeting sound. The asari and human turned, attentions focused on that voice's source. Standing a smooth distance away, small human hands still clutching his visor, Shepard's gaze trained on the space left by Vakarian's sacrifice. A strange smile painted her lips, warm tears collecting the dirt and blood that caked her face. A hand raised to touch her cheeks, blinking, confused, and elated at the texture of her own tears. It was a new discovery to her. A unique one. It was strange and exciting. So, so happy, yet... so, so sad.

"Shepard...?" Liara hesitated.

The human's attention shifted from the glory of her own emotions to Liara, grey eyes moving from hand to asari, regarding her with an expression that was both warm and loving. She shook her head, disengaging thick threads of brown hair caked by dirt and sweat from the sticky surface of her neck and face. Slowly, she raised Vakarian's visor to her left eye, blue screen casting shadows and highlights, creating a strange, familiar impression only intensified by the tattoos that decorated her cheeks and nose.

"Almost right," the woman said. "Actually, you're half right." And then she smiled. Not like a human, but like a turian. Shifting her weight backgrounds, a low growl hissing from the base of her throat to the tip of her nose.

Liara gawked... "No that's... that's... that's impossible... How can you be... both him and..."

The woman only smiled, visor bridged between her left eye and Liara, reading the familiar turian symbols and graphs that spread across the lens, the heart beat, the heat signature, the little turian symbols displayed just to the corner of the cross hairs that roughly translated to _trust your instincts. _She felt amused, pleased, sad, jovial, confused, uncertain, relieved, changed, different, free, alive and above all... _loved._

* * *

**Author's Note ::**

This line - _There are countless ingredients that make up the body and mind, like all the components that make up you as an individual. You may have a face and voice to distinguish yourself from others, but your thoughts and memories are unique only to you, and you carry a sense of your own destiny. Each of those things are just a small part of it. You collect information to use in your own way. All of that blends to create a mixture that forms you and gives rise to your conscience. You feel confined, only free to expand yourself within boundaries._ - is from Ghost in the Shell. I take no credit. But I wanted to nudge nudge wink wink it in there, because this story owes a great deal to Ghost in the Shell.

This story is dedicated to the Renegades. A small population, but man... being a renegade is fun. Don't knock it until you try it.

True to being a mystery, the clues are in the story. I tried telling all y'all what was gonna happen in every chapter. I really did. Chapter 1 is chocked full of hints.

The idea of 'changing' Reaper programming is an amalgamation of Synthesis and Control ME3 endings, Legion's loyalty mission with the heretic geth, Ghost in the Shell, and Pontypool (WONDERFUL horror movie. I highly recommend it).

This story is also inspired by Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Who. I'd also like to mention a wonderful fanfic 'An Elegant Solution' by James Golen who really sparked the idea in the first place. A reaper is a machine. Why can't you just reprogram it, especially if you are essentially hanging out in its giant collective brain ala The Citadel?

Also, as a heads up. If you do review the story up to this point, please refrain from spoiling the ending. This ending is very special. Feel free to get excited, but don't spoil it.

Now to write that epilogue... and then I can start responding to reviews.


	8. Epilogue

**THE FINAL PROBLEM**

**Epilogue**

_When you have eliminated the impossible,_  
_whatever remains,_  
_however improbable,_  
_must be the truth._

_- Sir Arthur Conan Doyle_

* * *

**Liara**

_"Only a year ago, this great city of London that you can see behind me served as the last battleground between life and death. Now, one year later, the galaxy comes together in memorial for people from all walks of life who united, working together and laying down their lives so we can live in peace and prosperity. Tonight, stay with us for full coverage of London's mass as we gather in silence. Afterwards, join us for exclusive interviews with survivors from that dark part of our collective pa-"_

Click.

_"Is it true, Councilor, that Commander Shepard tried to warn you about the Reaper Invasion six years ago?"_  
_"Ah yes... the 'rumors'. I have already answered these questions time and time again."_  
_"In a fairly roundabout way, Councilor..."_  
_"~sigh~ What would you have done if a human with a... disturbing military record approached you and demanded resources and attention days after being instated as a Spectre? Mind you, this was shortly after the First Contact war with humanity. We are all aware of Ex-Spectre Shepard's history, as well as her... erm... public profile. Mind you, she does punch problems rather than finding more practical solutions. So when this violent, socially disturbing human began to spout off about massive, omnipresent creatures bent to destroy all life... Of course we didn't take action."_  
_"Yes, but didn't one of these creatures attack the Citadel? Wasn't this proof that the future invasion was true?"_  
_"Would you have believed that ancient biomechanical aliens were going to harvest all life from the Galaxy, based on a single incident?"_  
_"..."_  
_"We didn't either."_

Click.

_"Protests have started to break out on Earth and the Citadel. Quarians demand that geth be allowed to mourn with organics, stating synthetic life is equal to organic life. However, the quarian-geth demands have proven unpopular with the galactic's majority. After the Reaper Invasion only one year ago to this day, many of the council races are demanding that the Council issue identification cards, galactic position chips, and to pay close attention to any A.I. unit."_

_'They can't be trusted!' The Salarian Dalatross recently stated. 'How long until synthetic intelligence becomes a threat liken to the Reapers? Have we learned NOTHING after the invasion last year?'_

_"In non-Council space, many races are taking the law into their own hands, rounding up rogue Geth, robots, and even non-threatening VIs, placing them in internment camps or shutting them down. Ambassador Tali'Zorah Vas Normandy has taken an active stance against what she calls the physical and emotional mistreatment of sentient platforms, demanding all self-thinking life deserves freedom from fear and suffering. She now heads the protests on Earth."_

Click.

_"This One is lost. This One is wayward. This One wishes to wander aimlessly until This One can wander no more."_  
_"This One has a suggestion. This One cares, and wishes to help."_  
_"This One is afraid help maybe too late."_  
_"This One reminds that help is never too late. The Enklinders have returned. He has resurrected from the dead, and with his mighty hand, joined the final fight to save all from their sins. Join This One in prayer and peace, in the Holy Church of Javik."  
"Send a message now and receive your own free copy of The Book of Javik! And remember, your soul can still be save-"_

Click.

_"... Yeah... I was there. I had my gun with me, Jessie. Fucking thing kept jamming, had to put her aside for one of them M-300 Claymore shotguns. Damn thing nearly ripped my arm off, but you take what you get when those mutated bastards surround you."_  
_"Mr. Massani, what happened after the fight?"_  
_"Eh? Well, my team didn't survive, if that's what you're asking. Reaper wiped 'em clean off the map. One single claw is all it took, smashed them into pudding, and not the tasty kind either. I was about to go down myself, damn thing had its eye fixed on me. I could feel the pulse too, nasty feeling. Like your body is about to get ripped up from the inside out. Then there was this flash in the sky. A loud bang. Blinded everything. Bright as shit. And then that Reaper just... stopped attacking. Hell. The husks stopped gnawin' on everyone's arms too. They all just stopped and looked at us like they just discovered sight or some shit..."_  
_"Did any of them try to talk to you? Or communicate?"_  
_"Fuck if I know. I didn't stop shooting. These zombies tried to kill me just before the bang, not about to wait if they are the friendly kind who like tea and conversation instead of napalm to the face. We cleared out all of London. Some of the Reapers managed to escape back to space. That's when we got word that the Mass Effect fields had fallen apart. Panic. Pure panic."_  
_"And yet, the Reapers came together and helped rebuild the Mass Effect fields..."_  
_"Yeah. I heard about that. And we just kept shootin' 'em until we realized they stopped shooting back. It was like... they turned into those Keeper bugs that live in the Citadel. Just kept coming back to rebuild what they fucked up, without saying a damn thing, no matter how many times we kept tryin' to shoot 'em or kill 'em. They weren't interested in self-preservation. It was weird."_  
_"And now, one year later, the Reapers have all vanished."_  
_"Yeah... wonder what's up with that. But, whatever. You can keep talkin' 'bout the weird, unexplainable shit or you can keep living."_  
_"Do you have any future plans, Mr. Massani?"_  
_"I'm fucking retiring. I'm tired of this bullshit. If any of you need to hire an experienced mercenary, go crawl up someone else's ass. I'm done. And you know I'm talking to you, Shepard."_

**BOOOOOM!**

Several screens briefly lapse to static, the gunshot rattling the interior of the Shadow Broker's base. One moment Liara's haunched over the table, blue eyes flickering from relay to relay, studying the images and meditating on the streaming information. The next, she's tripping on her feet as she stumbles backwards, arms awkwardly swimming in the air as her body answers her panic by wedging her balance. The asari falls fully on her back, cartlidge tentacles bruised by the floor's hard contact, wincing and running her fingers across the soft, supple flesh.

**BOOOM!**

"What in the name of the goddess..." Liara hushes, blue eyes wide and body recovering from shock. She rolls to her knees, carefully picking her body off the ground. Fingers still flexing the thick tendrils molded against her head, the Shadow Broker steps out into the main room of the base, searching for the suspect in question.

Deep blue eyes glare at the back of a certain human's head. A thick, purple headdress detailed with white swirls hid the human's skull, folded carefully to emulate the curves and contours of hair draping over her shoulders. Blink twice, and you might mistaken this person as Tali'Zorah. Well, if you ignored the person's posture and the fact she was waving around an M-98 Widow sniper rifle like no one's business.

"Shepard, what are you doing?" Liara exasperates.

The woman did not bother turning, leaving the asari to stare with her arms crossed under her breasts.

"Bored."

"... Shepard. Just because you are bored doesn't mean you can shoot the walls whenever you feel like it. How many times do we have to go over thi-"

"BORED!"

Emphasizing her point, Foucault turned around, Sniper Rifle braced in her hands as she single-handedly pulled the trigger and shot the wall near Liara's head, bullet denting the layers of thick metal plates.

The former commander pouted, further reminding Liara that this was not the Shepard she once knew. The original Jane Shepard would never pout, nor would she shoot walls pointlessly, or complain incessantly about being bored. Though, the asari had to remind herself that she did not know Shepard before the Reaper invasion, and it is quite possible that the former commander was just as frustrating and temperamental before giant, omnipresent biomechanical godlike aliens entered the foray to preoccupy her busy, busy, busy brain. Busy busy busy brains, rather. As Shepard is no more just Shepard, but rather a strange amalgamation of both Shepard and Garrus Vakarian.

"Maybe you could try reading a book? You like reading books..." Liara suggests.

"I've read them all."

"Oh now, that's not possib-"

"Liara. I've read them all."

One body, two minds, two pasts, two backgrounds, two giant pools of knowledge and experience. One would imagine that the combination of Garrus Vakarian's patient, calm, wise cracking disposition paired with Commander Shepard's sharp analytical, combative, and observational skills would make her the epitome of all that is good and wise in the universe. Unfortunately, Shepard was no more wise or patient as she was before. Over the past year, Liara had become acquainted with this new person who was neither Garrus or Shepard but Garrus _and _Shepard, more like adopting their whiny adult child who was neither raised properly nor understood basic social skills.

It made sense, however, as both Garrus and Shepard separately were oddities among their respective species. Garrus Vakarian constantly joked that he was a terrible turian who had little taste for rules, regulations, honor, and the such while Shepard was obviously regarded with hostility and frustration by her own race.

As such, this new person was both a terrible human and a terrible turian.

As great as her flaws were, this woman made up in intellect and observational skills ten fold.

"Nothing to do! Everyone is too busy celebrating how great it is to be at peace. No buzz, no words, no news... a few cases here and there, sure. A few rare highlights every once in a while. Easy pickings, though. But there is still nothing to do... Nothing to mind-practice," Shepard growls, compartmentalizing the widow before unceremoniously tossing it on the ground at Liara's feet. "How do you deal with it?"

"Deal with what?" Liara sighs, fingers massaging the bridge of her nose.

"This... peace. This... quiet. This... mind numbing tranquility," Shepard's shoulders slouch, "It's hateful."

"We manage," Liara mutters, not above a beat. The asari sighs, rolling her eyes and taking back the heavy sniper rifle. Legion had etched his name across the butt stock, uncharacteristic for a synthetic. Though, perhaps, it was his way of learning how to identify with organics.

Shepard sighs, defeated, before flopping onto a swivel chair. The momentum of her drop pushes the chair out onto the floor, picking her legs up as she crosses them half lotus onto the seat's cushion, orbiting the room in a slow draw as the chair pivots. She had long relinquished her armor, choosing to wear a simple black top, grey shorts, and thick varren leather boots. While dressed simply, she still looked odd, patching other clothing and armor together across her frame as reminders of people who had passed away or passed on or moved on or, in the case of Garrus Vakarian, became a part of her. Legion's shoulder guard was recycled, bracing her right arm. Legion's sniper rifle, recycled, Shepard's favorite weapon. Tali's headdress, recycled, adding to the lack of synchrosity that made up her outfit. And then there were Vakarian's tattoos, the only visible markings Shepard wore in her odd outfit of parts and pieces. The blue face paint peeked under unruly brown hair, framed by Tali's purple headdress. She also wore Vakarian's visor, adjusted and customized to fit her face, an ever reminder that Shepard was no longer Shepard, but in fact Garrus as well.

"Ugh... Spirits..." Shepard groans, rolling off of the chair and onto her back, grey eyes fixed on Liara's face from her upside-down perspective. "I need to exercise my mind. If I don't exercise my mind, it will turn into a bowl of mush. Two minds, Liara. Two brilliant minds make up THIS mind... I wouldn't expect you to understand..."

Liara rolls her eyes. It wasn't an asari expression, but it felt damn good and she had borrowed that human expression for a very long time. "Well... We still need to find more recruits for the Archangel Unit..."

"What about the memos I sent?" Shepard responds.

"Err... Well... Tali is too busy trying to stop a possible all out war between synthetics and organics yet again, Zaeed's retired and reminded me to tell you that he's uninterested... as delightfully as I could. No word from Kasumi, though I imagine it's because she's too busy stealing a planet."

"... A planet...?"

Liara sniffs. "Yes. A planet. Well... A dwarf planet... made up entirely of diamond."

"Sounds like Kasumi," Shepard sighs. "What about the others?"

"Jacob has a family, Shepard. He's not interested in almost getting killed again. By your orders. Though he is willing to have a drink in the near future, if you happen to stop by Eden Pri-"

"BORING. What else?"

"Miranda wishes you luck, though wants to spend more time on her own project. Something about synthesizing technology with biochemistry, in an effort to help the quarians. She also would love if you could pay her a visit on Illium, since she's interested in running a few tests..."

"..What test-... Wait. Does she know?" Shepard peers up at Liara, accusingly. "About... you know... The whole two-minds-one-person thing?"

"... Shepard, of course she knows. She's Miranda. She's been keeping tabs on you since the day you were 'born'."

The former commander groans, "I wish she'd just go adopt a baby instead of treating me like her baby. Fine. Whatever. What else do we have?"

"... Wrex expects you to understand he has too much on his plate to run off of Tuchanka and go on delightful, adventurous hijinks. Though he extends an invitation to his expecting child's welcoming ceremony."

The human groans, rolling on the ground before stopping at her belly like an overgrown child. "He's had one hundred children so far. How many welcoming ceremonies does he expect me to attend? They are all the same. And lord knows he's running out of names. I mean what, there's Jenny, Jane, Janey, Shep, Sheppy, Shepardio, Garr, Mordin, Mordinia, Mordy, Mo-"

"Yes yes, I know, Shepard. It's not necessary to name them all off..."

"-Ordik, Sol, Solu-.. Eh? Oh, all right, fine. What else do you have?"

Liara clears her throat, one brow perks as Shepard proceeds to cross her legs on the floor, rocking back and forth and staring at the asari like an expecting little girl ready for story time. "Grunt has expressed some interest. But he's busy breeding, and he thought you'd understand."

"Fucking teenagers.. only one thing on their mind..."

"... Samara extends her blessings, and is willing to help within limits... Justicar code and all that. Kaiden and James Vega are both too busy with their own missions as a spectres. Kaiden _would_ like you to start looking into a current murder investigation involving a human politician tha-"

"It wasn't a murder, it was an accident. He had an allergic reaction to a... er... encounter. In bed. With a drell. Person. It was actually a male, based on the evidence. So no, he wasn't poisoned, just tripping on balls, probably hallucinating about geth unicorns before tripping and hitting a knife to the face. Really, it's very cut and dry. I don't know why Kaiden still insists it's a murder."

"... Right," Liara groans. "It is still worth looking into, though.."

"No it's not. It really isn't," Shepard corrects, lips twisted into a petulant pout.

The asari shakes her head and continues, "Jack wishes you the best of luck. Says that the academy has her hands tied, but she'd love if you could drop in for another tattoo session in the future."

"Done and done," Shepard whistles, rolling her shoulders. "Still stings like a bitch too. What about Javik?"

"Retired. He wants out of the spotlight. Probably meditating on a remote planet. Wants nothing to do with us or anyone. Mostly avoiding the religious Hanar phenomenon that started in his name."

The commander sighs. "O Eternal Javik, Son of the Enkindlers, Save us from This One's sins... Well, I can't keep the Normandy docked forever, Liara. I'm tired of watching EDI and Joker's weird synthetic-organic experiment. I think they are trying to make the baby and its disgusting how they... look at each other these days."

"You mean, how they love one another?" Liara says nonplussed.

"Ugh, god, yes."

The asari just stares at the former commander in silence, one brow raised with both arms still crossed under her breasts as she evaluated the woman. The human only returned that stare, lips turned and hands clutching her feet from her seat on the floor, the harsh details of her visor spinning and ticking off random information involving Liara's current physical state. The Shadow Broker shook her head, one hand wandering up to the tips of her fringe, stroking the tendrils that still ached, bruised after her fall, "Why do I deal with this?"

"Because, Dr. T'soni, I fascinate you. And you are amazing. You may not be that much like me, but you also haaate being bored. You enjoy the adventure I provide, and I've always been good on my word when it comes to delivering adventure," Shepard ventures, grey eyes still fixed on Liara's. She forces a smile, the uncharacteristic flash of white teeth and curved pink lip almost ominous across her pale, human face. Liara's brow perks.

"Shepard. Are you trying to smile?"

"Well... That's what you do when you are... Fine." Shepard stops, nose twisting as she sniffs. "Whatever, you get my point."

T'soni sighs, the air expelling from her lungs and into an expression that has the gravity of a thousand words. I give up. It's true. I'm stuck with her. Through thick and thin. I'll deal. It's fine. Whatever. What else do I have to do, anyways?

"Shadow Broker," the synthesized, buzzing voice of her personal assistant Glyph breaks the uneven silence. Liara perks, regarding luminescent ball of floating light that perks from inside the surveillance office and into the center of the intelligence room. It spins and turns, whirring thoughtfully into delightful clicks, downloading information and processing it. "It has come to Council Space's attention that a several geth units have been hacked and committed self extermination. They were found in a peculiar arrangement"

Shepard's blank expression suddenly turned delightful, her features twisted from a blank canvas to sheer glee. "Is that so? How was it peculiar?"

"The geth units were found arranged, arms extended with wires gutted from their internal compartments. The wires illustrated large wings, suggesting imagery of human angels."

"Council has done nothing?" Liara inquires.

"Quarians and geth are looking into the mystery. The geth's collective memory has been systematically hacked, so there's no surveillance footage or evidence of the perpetrator's identity. Council has not yet determined whether synthetic intelligence is considered a life, and has turned down quarian request to look into the matter. Twelve units were found this morning in London, near the Thames River. Alliance Intelligence is keeping the situation quiet from public news, considering recent protests and unrest between artificial intelligence and organic."

Before Liara could ask further, the former Commander had already spun right up onto her feet by lifting her full weight from her ankles and reached out to collect the asari's shoulders between her hands, jumping up and down like a giddy little girl, bright eyes shining delight and excitement, "A serial killer! We have a serial killer! How delightful is that?! And an experienced hacker serial killer too! Oh, the spirits have answered my prayers. Quick, Dr. T'soni, I will see you on the Normandy's deck, twenty minutes. Ten if you need to collect more information here. I expect to set course for Earth before they start that terrible memorial mass, lord knows I'd rather be anywhere else than there when that happens... Still! We can't keep Alliance Intelligence waiting, can we?"

Shepard's jaw clicked, the excitement a thrill that broke the tension. Shepard collected the Sniper Rifle from the table where Liara laid it, bracing it against her back as she skipped towards the base's docking bay. A half-smile turned Liara's face from a serious, tired expression to a warm, pleasant one - sincerely delighted by her friend's sudden transformation, and personally curious and excited about the prospects of a difficult puzzle that required her advice as much as Commander Shepard's two-minded ability to observe and answer even the most difficult problems.

Shepard was right about one thing. As intolerable as the former commander could be, and as frustrating as she often was, she still managed to provide quite the amount of excitement and adventure.

Romps like these are why Liara will always remain Shepard's constant shadow. Changed or not, Jane 'Foucault' Shepard was still herself and Garrus Vakarian was still himself, an odd mixture that could be a headache during the worst of times, and sheer fun at the best of them.

- Fin

* * *

**Author's Note ::**

This story is not a critique on ME3's ending. I liked the ending. Won't tell you which I chose, but I was perfectly satisfied. I do understand why some people were peeved. It's hard to say goodbye to the characters we've journeyed with for nearly five years. It's really hard to say goodbye.

I wrote this story as a response to the fan outcry. We don't want anyone to die. Not really. It's not fun making that sacrifice. We'd rather our favorites continue to live forever, on and on, immortal and all that, making the perfect choice, the right choice, the choice that you are supposed to make. Hence why I called this story "The Final Problem". This is a reference to the infamous Sherlock Holmes tale where, Arthur Conan Doyle killed a beloved character. Sherlockian Fans were so in love with that brilliant detective, it was just too hard to say goodbye. He's not meant to die. He's meant to live on, perpetually, in our imaginations. Its too bad the Victorians didn't have fanfic. Maybe Doyle would've been let off easier then.

So what is "The Final Problem"? In my opinion, The Final Problem is overcoming death. How do you solve the final problem? Easy. By rewriting it.

So what's your Shepard doing in the post-war? Is s/he controlling Reapers? Settling down? Having kids? All synthesized? Well, Foucault is currently solving mysteries with Dr. T'soni and her Widow sniper rifle. No time for having babies or screwing around. Probably doesn't help that Garrus is now sharing her brain space. Greatest Detective in the Galaxy, anyone? She seems to think so.

So yes. My Shepard becomes Space Sherlock post ME3. I am not ashamed of it, thank you. That was my homage. :)

I illustrated Foucault as she currently appears with her permanent shadow Dr. T'soni on Deviantart. If you'd like to take a peek, feel free to check out my deviantart page. I'm quite proud of the drawing.

And now my favorite part. REVIEW RESPONSE!

Thanatos34  
I did notice the indoctrination theory. It's why I ran with it. Mostly because, if Shepard was indoctrinated, what chance in hell did s/he have of getting outta that one? Once you are indoctrinated you are toast. Fun exploration.

Wicked Child  
Thank you. Foucault's flawed, but that's why I love her. Her flaws make her fun to write. And I'm terrible at romantic cliches. Or romance in general.

Ryuou  
It was fun to write. :)

Honoo Girl  
More renegade fics. I really don't find them. Or at least, Badass Shepards that aren't likable. I like my heroes extremely flawed and even nasty.

Lesatho  
Thank you. :) The story did start as a short, but I've expanded it. Really fun.

Random Reader  
I love Sherlock. Worst crush on the world for him, really. All interpretations. When I made up Shepard, Sherlock served as the main inspiration.

Anonymous  
Writing a story about an autistic personality was difficult but a fun romp. Still exploring Shepard, prior to The Final Problem's conclusion. You can read Patchwork Girl if you are still interested in what I do with her later.

Hawthorn Song  
Thank you :)

Pride of ZAFT  
I hope the full conclusion of this story has answered all of your questions.

Peres  
Did you end up making a Renegade Shep for yourself? I hope it turned out fun!

KetalaLindemann  
Awww, thank you!

PSG1JOHN  
I had a lot of fun writing it. :) And the endings aren't that bad, not really. It's just hard to say goodbye to the characters we love.

Rshep  
Thank you. If there are anymore stories about indoctrination, please toss them my way. Open to suggestions, and I'm curious what other people came up with.

Col. Foley  
Oh hell yeah I did. :)

Raven Jadewolfe  
Just take her to The Citadel and merge with her brain. A typical day in the life of Vakarian.

Sylnnn  
Garrus is a grown boy. If he really needs to off Sidonis, then he can make that decision for himself. And I agree. I'm not a big fan of the 'I MUST SAVE GARRUS' deal. Save him from what? Being himself? You can't save people from themselves, nor should you force them to change. It's not realistic nor is it fair.

Franki4160  
Your review helped me snap out of my writer's block. I was having a hard time penning this story to completion, and going back to this got me back into the mood. So thank you for cheering me up!

Elesey  
I hope you liked the ending. :) It was fun to write, and I really appreciate the compliments! thank you so much. writing fanfic is like therapy, and the end results always feel really really great.

Meg Krios  
Personally, I'm not good at romance. I mean, it can be done well, but I personally choose not to write it from a purely romantic angle. I'm more interested in the depths of partners and friends. When you take sex out of the equation, a relationship built purely on personality and friendship just fascinates me.

imdoingthisformyfriend  
Awwww, thank you so much! Your review made me blush. I do love writing Garrus, especially since he's one of my top three favorite characters (just under Mordin and Legion). I enjoy exploring him, he's interesting. I guess when he admitted that he wasn't a good turian either in ME2 or ME3, I was even more interested in his character. He seems like a pretty good person to me. How is a good turian suppose to act? What does a bad turian act like? That as fun to explore.

Lady Anaia Lionel  
Thank you very very much. It was fun to write, and I'm pleased with it :)

BlossomingSun  
Woohoo! Renegades are fun. Perfect comedic timing too. Though, ME3 is less fun for renegades than ME2. Lacks the humor, I suppose.

I think that's all? Anyways, all of you guys and all of your reviews keep me revitalized, happy, and are incredibly encouraging. Everytime I get a new review, I feel like a grew a second pair of wings. It feels wonderful. Thank you :)


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